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OF.  CALIF,  LIBBABY,   LOS  AIJGELIS 


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POPDLAR    NOVELS. 

BY  MAT  AGNES  FLEMIIfG. 


l.-QUY  EARLSCOUBT'S  WTFK. 

8.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

«.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 

4.— NORLXE'S  REVENGE. 

6.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 

«.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MTSTBHY. 

7.— K.\TH  DANTON. 

8.-S1LENT  Ain)  TRUE. 

».— HEIR  OV  CHARLTON. 
lO.-CARIilED  LY  STORM. 
11.— LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN. 
18.— A  WIPE'S  TRAGEDY. 
18.— A  CHANGED  EEART 
14.— PBIDB  AND  PASSION 
IB.— SHAKING  HSR  OKniB. 
16.— A  WKONGED  WIFJi    {yea). 

"  Mr«.  Pleaalng's  storleti  are  growing  raorc  «n4  mora 
popnJar  every  day.    Tkcir  deiia-f.Uon?  of  characur, 
life-like  conversatious,  flishfs  of  wit,  con- 
stantly varying;  gcenes,  aad  deeply  Inter- 
Mting  plois,    combine   to    place 
tbfir  author  in  the  very 
flrrt  ranlE  of  Modem 
NovelisU." 


All  pabliahed  onlform  with  tbia  volome.    Price,  $1.S0 
each,  and  tent  /Nt  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price, 

BT 

G.  rr.  CAELETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
Now  York. 


T 


A 

CHANGED  Heart 

^  ISiorytl 


BY 

MAY    AGNES    FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  OK 

"GUY    earslcourt's    wife,"       "a    terrible    secret/ 

"A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN,"    "ONE  NIGHTS  MYSTERY, 
"SILENT  AND  TRUE,"      "A  MAD  MARRIAGE, 
"LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN," 
ETC.,   ETC. 


"  If  Fortune,  with  a  smiling  face. 

Strew  roses  on  our  way, 
When  shall  we  stoop  to  pick  them  up? 

To-day,  my  love,  to-day." 


<&t 


NEW    YORK: 

Copyright,  ISSl.by 

C.   PV,    Carleton   &    Co.,   Publishers, 

LOlfDON  :    S.   LOW,   SON  &  CO. 

MDCCCLXXXIII. 


Stereotypcfl  by 
Samuel  Stodder,  Thow 

ELECTROTTrEn  &  StEREOTYPEB,  PBUfTINO  AXD  BoOK  BlNDnfO  CO. 

m  Ann  Stkeet,  N.  Y.  I^.  Y, 


CONTENTS. 


■APTZB  PASS 

L    Miss  McGregor  at  home 7 

IL     Nathalie 14 

IIL     Miss  Rose 25 

'IV.     Val's  office 36 

V.     Killing  two  birds  with  one  stone 46 

VI.     An  evening  at  Miss  Blake's 59 

VII.  Too  many  irons  in  the  fire 67 

VIII.  Val  turns  men  tor 82 

IX.     Wooed  and  won 95 

X.     Past  and  loose 112 

XI.  How  Captain  Cavendish  meant  to  marry  Clien-ie  .   123 

XIL     In  which  the  wedding  comes  off  138 

Xin.     After  the  wedding    150 

XIV.     Mining  the  ground  157 

XV.     Springing  the  mine 167 

XVI.     A  crime  179 

XVII.     Found  guilty 191 

XVIII.     The  darkening  sky    207 

XIX.     The  flight      217 

XX.     "  One  more  unfortunate  " 227 

XXL     Mrs,  Butterby'a  lodgings    236 

21295C1 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGH 

XXII.     The  lieiress  of  Redmon    247 

XXin.     The  heiress  of  Redmon  enters  society 259 

XXIV.     The  spell  of  tlie  enchantress 275 

XXV.     The  double  compact 2*3 

XXVI.     Mr.  Paul  Wyndham 299 

XXVn.     Mr.  Wyndnam's  wooing 313 

XXVIII.     Mr.  Wyndham's  wedding 324 

XXIX     Mr.  Wyndham's  mother 33G 

XXX.     Very  mysterious 349 

XXXL     Val's  discovery 36G 

XXXII.     Cherrie  tells  the  truth 377 

XXXIIL     Overtaken 391 

XXXrV.     The  Vesper-Hymn 406 

XXXV.  "  Quoth  the  Raven,  *  Nevermore '  "     417 

XXXVI.  Drifting  out 425 

XXXVII.    Dies  Irae,  Dies  Ilia 430 

XXXVm.     Out  of  /.he  crooked  ways 450 

XXXTX.     In  Hope 478 


A    CHANGED    HEART. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MISS  m'gregor  at  home. 

^W^f^  T  ■^^^s  ^  ^^SSy  iiif^^it  in  Speckport.  There 
5^1'^^  was  nothini'  uncominou  in  its  beincr  foercry 
fniW  ^  close  May  evening;  but  it  was  rather 
?^fw^-;i  provoking  and  ungaikint  of  the  clerk  of 
the    weather,    seeing    that    Miss    McGregor 

Earticiilarly  desired  it  to  be  ilne.  Miss  Jeannette  (she 
ad  been  cliristened  plain  Jane,  but  scorned  to  answer 
to  anything  so  unroniantic) — Miss  Jeannette  McGregor 
was  at  home  to-night  to  all  the  ehte  of  Speckport ;  and  as 
a  good  many  of  tlie  elite  owned  no  other  conveyance  than 
that  which  Nature  had  given  them,  it  was  particularly 
desirable  the  weather  should  be  hne.  But  it  wasn't  tine ; 
it  was  njisty  and  drizzly,  and  sultry  and  foggy ;  and  sky 
and  sea  were  blotted  out;  and  the  gas-lamps  sprinkled 
through  the  sloppy  streets  of  Speckport  blinked  feebly 
through  the  gloom ;  and  people  buttoned  up  to  the  chin 
and  wTapped  in  cloaks  flitted  by  each  other  like  phantoms, 
in  the  pale  blank  of  wet  and  fog.  And  half  the  year 
round  that  is  the  sort  of  weather  they  enjoy  in  Speckport. 
You  don't  know  Speckport !  There  I  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  you  ;  for  I  know  its  whole  history,  past,  pres- 
ent, and — future,  I  was  going  to  say,  though  1  don't  set 
up  for  a  prophet ;  but  tlig  future  of  Speckport  does  not 
seem  hard  to  foretell.  The  Union-jack  floats  over  it,  the 
State  of  M.aine  is  its  next-door  neighbor,  and  flsh  and  fog 

i7J 


8  MISS    M'GREOOR    AT    HOME. 

are  its  principal  productions.  It  also  had  the  honor  of 
producing  Miss  McGregor,  who  was  born  one  other  foggy 
night,  just  twoand-twonty  years  previous  to  this  "At 
Home,"  to  whiclv  you  and  I  are  going  presently,  in  a 
dirty  little  black  street,  which  she  scorns  to  know  even  by 
name  now.  Two-and-twenty  years  ago,  Sandy  McGregor 
worked  as  a  day-laborer  in  a  shipyard,  at  thi*ee  and  six- 
pence per  day.  Now,  Mr.  Alexander  McGregor  is  a 
ship-builder,  and  has  an  income  of  ten  thousand  gold  dol- 
lars per  year.  Not  a  millionaire,  you  know ;  but  very 
well  off,  and  very  comfortable,  and  very  contented ;  living 
in  a  nice  house,  nicely  furnished,  keeping  horses  and  car- 
riage, and  very  much  looked  up  to,  and  very  much  re- 
spected in  Speckport. 

Speckport  has  its  Fifth  Avenue  as  well  as  New  York. 
Not  that  they  call  it  Fifth  Avenue,  you  understand  ;  its 
name  is  Golden  liow,  and  the  abiders  therein  are  made  of 
the  porcelain  of  human  clay.  Great  people,  magnates 
and  aristocrats  to  their  finger-tips,  scorning  the  pigmies 
who  move  in  second  and  third  society  and  have  only  the 
happiness  of  walking  through  Golden  Kow,  never  of 
dwelling  there.  The  houses  were  not  brown-stone  fronts. 
Oh,  no !  there  were  half-a-dozen  brick  buildings,  some 
pretty,  little  Gothic  cottages,  with  green  vines,  and  bee- 
hives, and  bird-houses,  about  them,  and  all  the  rest  were 
great  painted  palaces  of  wood.  Some  had  green  sliutters, 
and  some  had  not ;  some  were  painted  white,  and  some 
brown,  and  some  stone-color  and  drab,  and  they  all  had  a 
glittering  air  of  spickspan-newness  about  them,  as  if  their 
owners  had  them  painted  every  other  week.  And  in  one 
of  these  palaces  Mr.  McGregor  lived.    . 

You  drove  down  Golden  Row  through  the  fog  and 
drizzle,  between  the  blinking  lamps,  and  you  stop  at  a 
stone-colored  house  with  a  brown  hall-door,  and  steps 
going  up  to  it.  The  hall  is  brilliant  with  gas,  so  is  the 
drawing-room,  so  are  the  two  parlors,  so  is  the  dining- 
room,  so  are  the  dressing  rooms ;  awl  the  elite  of  Speck- 
port  are  bustling  and  jostling'  one  another  about,  and 
making  considerable  noise,  and  up  in  the  gallery  the  band 
ifl  in  full  blast  at  the  " Lancers" — for  they  know  how  to 


MISS    M' OREO  OR    AT    HOME.  9 

dance  the  Lancers  in  Speckport — and  the  young  ladies 
dipping  and  bowing  through  the  intricacies  of  the  dance, 
wear  tiieir  di'esses  just  as  low  in  the  neck  and  as  short  in 
the  sleeves  as  any  I'if  th  avenue  belle  dare  to  do. 

Very  pretty  girls  they  are,  lioating  about  in  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow.  There  are  no  diamonds,  perhaps,  except 
glass  ones ;  but  there  are  gold  cliains  and  crosses,  and  brace- 
lets, and  lockets  and  things ;  and  some  of  the  young  ladies 
have  rings  right  up  to  the  middle  joint  of  their  lingers. 
The  young  gentlemen  wear  rings,  too,  and  glittering  shirt- 
studs  and  bosom-pins,  and  are  good  looking  and  gentle- 
manly. While  the  young  folks  dance,  the  old  folks  play 
walliiower  or  cards,  or  take  snufl"  or  punch,  or  talk  politics. 
All  the  juvenile  rag-tag  and  bobtail  of  Speckport  are  out 
side,  gaping  up  with  open-mouthed  admiration  at  the 
blazing  front  of  the  McGregor  mansion,  and  swallowing 
the  music  that  floats  through  the  open  windows. 

Sailing  along  Golden  liow,  with  an  umbrella  up  to 
protect  her  bonnet  from  the  fog,  comes  a  tall  lady,  un- 
protected and  alone,  and  "  There's  Miss  Jo,  hurrah !"  yells 
a  shrill  voice ;  and  the  tall  lady  receives  her  ovation  with 
a  gratilied  face,  and  bows  as  she  steps  over  the  McGregor 
threshold.  Ten  minutes  later,  she  enters  the  drawing- 
room,  divested  of  her  wrappings ;  and  you  see  she  is 
elderly  and  angular,  and  prim  and  precise,  and  withal 
good-natured.  She  is  sharp  at  the  joints  and  shoulder- 
blades,  and  her  black  silk  dress  is  hooked  up  behind  in 
the  fashion  of  twenty  years  ago.  She  wears  no  crinoline, 
and  looks  about  as  graceful  as  a  lamp-post ;  but  she  is 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  fine,  with  a  massive  gold  chain 
about  her  neck  that  would  have  made  a  ship's  cable  easily, 
and  a  cross  and  a  locket  clattering  from  it,  and  beating 
time  to  her  movements  on  a  cameo  brooch  the  size  of  a 
dinner-plate.  Eardrops,  a  finger-length  long,  dangle  from 
her  ears ;  cameo  bracelets  adorn  her  skinny  wrists ;  and 
her  hair,  of  which  she  has  nothing  to  speak  of,  is  worn  in 
little  corkscrew  curls  about  her  sallow  face. 

Mis&  Johanna  Blake  is  an  old  maid,  and  looks  like  it ; 
she  is  also  an  exile  of  Erin,  and  the  most  inveterate  gossip 
in  Speckport. 
1* 


10  JSriSS    M' OREO  OR    AT    ROME. 

A  trem3ndons  uproar  greets  her  as  she  enters  the 

drawing-room,  and  siie  stops  in  considerable  consternation. 

Ill  a  recess  near  the  door  was  a  card-table,  round 
v%-lnch  four  elderly  ladies  and  four  elderly  gentlemen  sat, 
with  a  laughing  crowd  looking  on  from  behind.  The 
card-party  were  in  a  violently  agitated  and  excited  state, 
all  screaming  out  together  at  the  top  of  the  gamut. 

Miss  Jo  swept  on  in  majestic  silence,  nodding  right 
and  left  as  she  streamed  down  the  apartment  to  where 
Mrs.  McGregor  stood,  with  a  little  knot  of  matrons  around 
her — a  lady  as  tall  as  Miss  Jo  herself,  and  ever  so  much 
stouter,  her  fat  face  hot  and  flushed,  and  wielding  a  fan 
ponderously,  as  if  it  were  a  ton  weight.  Mrs.  McGregor, 
during  forty  yeai-s  of  he^'  life,  had  been  a  good  deal  more 
familiar  with  scnibbiiig-brnshes  than  fans;  but  yon  would 
not  think  so  now,  maybe,  if  you  saw  her  in  that  purple- 
satin  dress  and  gold  watch,  ner  fat  hands  flashing  w\X\i 
rhigs,  and  that  bewildering  combuiation  of  white  lace  and 
ribbons  on  her  head.  Her  voice  was  as  loud  as  her  style 
of  dress,  and  she  shook  Miss  Jo's  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a 
pump-handle. 

"  And  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Blake,  and  whatever  on 
earth  kept  you  till  this  hour?  I  was  just  saying  to  Jean- 
nette,  a  while  ago,  1  didn't  believe  you  were  going  to 
come  at  all." 

"I  could  not  help  it,"  said  Miss  Jo.  "Val  didn't 
come  home  till  late,  and  then  I  had  to  stop  and  find  him 
his  things.  You  know,  my  dear,  what  a  trouble  men  are, 
and  that  Val  beats  them  all.     Has  everybody  come  ?" 

'*I  think  so;  everybody  bat  your  Val  and  the 
Mai-shcs.  Maybe  my  lad}-  is  in  one  of  her  tantrums,  and 
won't  let  Natty  come  at  all.  Jeannette  is  all  but  dis- 
tracted. Natty's  got  lots  of  parts  in  them  things  they're 
having — tablets — no  ;  tableaux,  that's  the  name,  and  they 
never  can  get  on  \vitliout  her.  Jeaunette's  gone  to  Iook 
for  Sandy  to  send  him  up  to  Redmon  to  see." 

"  I  say,  Miss  Jo,  how  do  you  And  yourself  this  even- 
ing?" exclaimed  a  spirited  voice  behind  her;  and  Mrs. 
McGregor  gave  a  little  yelp  of  delight  as  she  s  ^w  who  it 
was — a  young  man,  not  more  than  twenty,  perliaps,  very 


MISS    MCGREGOR    AT    HOME.  11 

good-looking,  with  blight  gray  eyes,  fail*  hair,  aiid  a  sunny 
smile.  He  was  holding  out  a  hand,  small  and  fair  as  a 
lady's,  to  Miss  Blake,  who  took  it  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"  Jo's  very  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Charles.  How  is 
your  mamma  this  evening  ?" 

"  She  was  all  right  when  I  left  home.     Is  Yal  here?" 

"Not  yet.     Have  you  just  come ?" 

The  young  gentleman  nodded,  and  was  turning  away, 
but  Mrs.  McGregor  recalled  him. 

"  Isn't  your  mother  coming,  Chai-ley  ?" 

"  Ko,  she  can't,"  said  Charley.  "  The  new  teacher's 
come,  and  she's  got  to  stay  with  her.  She  told  me  to 
bring  lier  apologies." 

The  ladies  were  all  animation  directly.  The  new 
teacher !  What  was  she  like  ?  When  did  she  come  i 
Was  she  young  ?    AVas  she  pretty  ?     Did  she  seem  nice  ? 

"  I  didn't  see  her,"  said  Charley,  lounging  against  a 
sofa  and  flapping  his  gloves  about. 

"  Didn't  see  her !  I  thought  you  said  she  was  in  your 
house  V'  cried  Mi's.  McGregor. 

"  So  she  is.  I  mean  I  didn't  see  her  face.  She  had 
a  thick  vail  on,  and  kept  it  down,  and  I  left  two  or  three 
minutes  after  she  came." 

"  She  came  to  Speckjoort  in  this  evening's  boat,  then  ?" 
said  Miss  Jo.     "  What  did  she  wear?" 

Charley  was  bowing  and  smiling  to  a  pretty  girl  pass- 
ing on  her  partner's  arm. 

Mrs.  McGregor  nodded,  and  Charley  sauntered  ofiE. 
The  two  ladies  looked  after  him. 

"  What  a  nice  young  man  that  Charley  Mai^sh  is !"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Jo,  admiringly,  "  and  so  good-looking,  and 
so  steady,  and  so  good  to  his  mamma.  You  won't  find 
many  like  him  nowadays." 

Mrs.  McGregor  lowered  her  voice  to  a  mysterious 
whisper. 

"  Do  you  know.  Miss  Jo,  they  say  he  goes  after  that 
Cherric  Ncttleby.     Did  you  hear  it  ?" 

"  Fiddlestick !"  said  Miss  Jo,  politely.  "  Speckport's 
got  that  story  out,  has  it?  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
ft!" 


13  MISS    M'GREQOB    AT    HOME.  ^ 

"Here's  Val!"  cried  Mrs.  McGregor,  off  on  a  new 
tack ;  "  and,  my  patience !  wnat  a  swell  he's  got  with 
him !" 

Miss  Jo  looked  round.  Coming  down  the  long  room 
together  were  two  young  men,  whose  appearance  created 
a  visible  sensation — one  of  them,  preposterously  tall  and 
thin,  with  uncommonly  long  legs  and  arms — a  veritable 
Shanghai — was  Mr.  Valentine  Blake,  Miss  Jo's  brother 
and  sole  earthly  relative.  He  looked  seven-and-twenty, 
was  carelessly  dressed,  his  clothes  hanging  about  him 
any  way — not  handsome,  but  with  a  droll  look  of  good 
humor  about  liis  face,  and  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
that  would  have  redeemed  a  plainer  countenance. 

His  companion  was  a  stranger,  and  it  was  he  who 
created  the  sensation,  not  easy  Val.  Mrs.  McGregor  had 
called  him  a  "  swell,"  but  Mrs.  McGregor  was  not  a  very 
relined  judge.  He  was  dressed  well,  but  not  overdressedf, 
as  the  slang  term  would  imply,  and  he  looked  a  thorough" 
gentleman.  A  very  handsome  one,  too,  with  dark  curl- 
ing hair,  dark,  bright,  handsouie  eyes,  a  jetty  mustache  on 
his  lip,  and  a  Hashing  diamond  ring  on  his  linger.  There 
was  a  certain  air  militaire  about  him  that  bespoke  his  pro- 
fession, though  he  wore  civilian's  clothes,  and  he  and  Val 
looked  about  the  same  age.  No  wonder  the  apparition  of 
BO  distinguished-looking  a  stranger  in  Mrs.  McGregor's 
di-awing-room  should  create  a  buzzing  among  the  Speck- 
port  bon  ton. 

"  My  goodness !"  cried  Mrs.  McGregor,  all  in  a 
flutter.  "Whoever  can  he  be  'i  He  looks  like  a  soldier, 
don't  he?" 

"  There  came  a  regiment  from  Halifax  this  morning," 
said  Miss  Jo.     "  Here's  Val  bringing  him  up." 

Mr.  Val  was  ]ircsenting  him  even  while  she  spoke. 
"  Cai:)tain  Cavendish,  Mi's.  McGreo;or,  of  the  — th,"  and 
then  the  captain  was  bowing  profoundly ;  and  the  lady 
of  the  mansion  was  returning  it,  in  a  violent  trepidation 
and  tremor,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what  she  was  ex- 
pected to  s;iy  to  so  distinguished  a  visitor.  J3ut  relief  was 
at  hand.  Charley  Marsh  was  beside  them  with  a  young 
lady  on  his  arm — a  young  lady  best  described  by  that 


MISS    M' GREG  OR    AT    HOME.  13 

odious  word  "genteel."  She  waa  not  pretty;  slie  was 
sandy-haired  and  freckled,  but  slie  was  the  daughter  of 
the  house,  and,  as  such,  demanding  attention,  Val  in- 
troduced the  captain  directly,  and  Mrs.  McGregor 
breathed  freely  a^in. 

"  Look  here,  v  al !"  she  whispered,  catching  him  by 
the  button,  "  who  is  he,  anyway  ?" 

Val  lowered  liis  voice  and  looked  round  him  cau- 
tiously. 

"  Did  yon  ever  hear  of  the  Marquis  of  Carrabas,  Mrs. 
McGregor  ?" 

"  iSIo — yes — I  don't  remember.  Is  he  an  English 
nobleman  ?" 

"  A  very  great  nobleman.  Ma'am  ;  famous  in  bistoir 
as  connected  with  the  cat-trade,  and  Captain  Cavendish  is 
next  lieir  to  the  title.  Mrs.  Marsh  can  tell  you  all  about 
the  Marquis ;  can't  she,  Charley  ?" 

Charley,  who  was  ready  to  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter 
at  Mrs.  McGregor's  open-mouthed  awe,  took  hold  of  the 
arm  of  a  feeble-minded-looking  young  gentleman,  whose 
freckled  features,  sandy  hair,  and  general  resemblance  to 
the  family,  proclaimed  him  to  be  Mr.  Alexander  Mc- 
Gregor, Junior,  and  walked  him  off. 

"  And  he  came  from  Halifax  this  evening,  Val  ?" 
Mi's.  McGregor  asked,  gazing  at  the  young  Englishman  in 
the  same  state  of  awe  and  delight. 

"Yes,"  said  Val,  "it  was  there  I  got  acquainted  with 
him  first.  1  met  him  on  my  way  here,  and  thought  you 
would  not  be  offended  at  the  liberty  I  took  in  fetching 
him  along." 

"  Oifendcd !  My  dear  Val,  you  couldn't  have  pleased 
me  better  if  3'ou  had  been  trying  for  a  week.  A  Markis 
and  a  Captain  in  the  Army!  Why,  it's  the  greatest 
honor,  and  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you.  I  aiir,  in- 
deed!" 

"  All  riglit,"  said  Val.  "  Speckport  will  be  envious 
enough,  I  dare  say,  for  it's  not  every  place  he'll  go  to,  and 
all  will  want  him.  You'll  lose  Jane  if  you're  not  careful, 
thourfi — see  how  he's  talking  to  her." 

Mrs.  McGregor's  eyes  were  dancing  in  her  head.     A 


U  NATHALIE. 

dazzling  vision  rose  before  her — her  daughter  a  Marchion- 
ess, living  in  a  castle,  dressed  in  satin  and  diamonds  the 
year  round  1  She  could  have  hugged  Val  in  her  rapture ; 
and  Val  reading  some  such  idea  in  her  beaming  face, 
backed  a  little,  in  some  alarm. 

"  I  saj,  though,  wasn't  there  to  be  tableaux  or  some- 
thing ?"  he  inquired.     "  AVhen  are  they  coming  off  ?" 

"As  soon  as  Natty  Marsh  gets  here;  they  can't  get 
on  without  her." 

"  What  keeps  her?"  asked  Yal. 

"The  new  teacher's  come  to  Mrs.  Marsh's,  Charley 
says,  and  Natty  is  stopping  in  to  see  her.  There's  the 
captain  asking  Jeannctto  to  dance." 

So  he  was ;  and  Miss  Jeannctte,  with  a  gratified  sim- 
per, was  just  laying  her  kidded  fingei-s  inside  his  coat- 
sleeve,  vheu  her  brother  came  breathlessly  up. 

"  Look  here,  Janie  !  you'd  better  not  go  off  dancing," 
was  his  cry,  "  if  you  mean  to  have  those  tableaux  to-night. 
Natty's  come  I" 


CHAPTER  IL 

NATHALIE. 


[RS.  McGREGOR'S  drawing-room  was  empty. 
Everybody  had  flocked  into  the  front  parlor 
and  arranged  themselves  on  seats  there  to  wit- 
ness the  performance;  that  is  to  say,  every- 
body who  had  no  part  in  the  proceedings. 
Most  of  the  young  people  of  botli  sexes  were  behind  the 
solemn  green  curtain,  with  its  row  of  footlights,  that  separ- 
ated the  two  rooms,  dressing  for  their  parts.  The  old 
people  were  as  much  interested  in  the  proceedings  as  the 
young  people,  for  their  sons  and  daughters  were  the  ac- 
tors and  actresses. 

Captain  Cavendish  and  Mr.  Val  Blake  occupied  a  front 


NATHALIE.  15 

Beat.  Yal  had  a  part  assigned  bim ;  but  it  did  not  come 
on  for  some  time,  so  he  was  playing  spectator  now. 

"  I  saw  you  making  up  to  little  Jane,  Cavendish,"  Val 
was  saying,  sotto  voce,  for  Miss  Janie's  mamma  sat  near. 
*'  Was  it  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight  ?" 

"Miss  McGregor  is  not  very  pretty,"  said  Captain 
Cavendish,  moderately.  "  Who  was  that  young  lady  with 
the  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  I  saw  you  speaking  to,  just 
before  we  came  here ?' 

"  Red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes !"  repeated  Val,  putting 
on  his  consideriug-cap,  "  that  description  appKes  to  half 
the  girls  in  Speckport.     What  had  she  on  ?" 

Captain  Cavendish  laughed. 

"  Would  any  one  in  the  world  but  Yal  Blake  ask  such 
a  question  ?  She  had  on  a  pink  dress,  and  had  pink  and 
white  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  looked  saucy." 

"  Oh,  I  know  now !"  Val  cried,  with  a  flash  of  recol- 
lection ; ' "  that  was  Laura  Blah*,  one  of  the  nicest  little 
girls  that  ever  sported  crinoline  I  Such  a  girl  to  laugh, 
you  know !" 

"  She  looks  it !     Ah !  up  you  go !" 

This  apostrophe  was  addressed  to  the  curtain,  which 
was  rising  as  he  spoke.  Tliore  was  a  general  flutter,  and 
settling  in  seats  to  look;  the  orchestra  pealed  forth  and 
the  first  tableau  was  revealed. 

It  was  very  pretty,  but  very  common — "  Rebecca  and 
Rowena."  Miss  Laura  Blair  was  Rowena,  and  a  tall 
brunette,  Rebecca.  The  audience  applauded,  as  in  dutj 
bonnd,  and  the  curtain  fell.  The  second  was  "Patience" 
— "  Patience-on  a  monuinent  smiling  at  Grief."  On  a 
high  pedestal  stood  Miss  Laura  Blair,  again,  draped  in  a 
white  sheet,  like  a  ghost,  her  hair  all  loose  about  her,  and 
an  azure  girdle  all  over  spangles  clasping  her  waist. 

At  the  foot  of  the  pedestal  crouched  Grief,  in  a 
strange,  distorted  attitude  of  pain.  The  face  of  the  per- 
former was  hidden  in  her  hands;  her  black  garments  fall- 
ing heavily  around  her,  her  hair  unbound,  too,  her  whole 
manner  expressing  de.'pair,  as  fidly  as  attitude  could  ex- 
pn^ss  it.  The  music  seemed  changing  to  a  wail ;  the  eficci 
of  the  whole  w;is  perfect. 


16  NATHALIE. 

"  What  do  yon  thiuk  of  that  ?"  said  Yal. 

"  Very  good,"  said  Captain  Cavendish.  "  It  goes  con- 
siderably ahead  of  anything  I  had  expected.  Patience  is 
very  nice-looking  girl." 

"  And  isn't  she  jolly  ?  She's  dying  to  shout  ont  this 
minnte !  I  should  think  the  glai-e  of  these  footlights 
would  force  her  eyelids  open." 

"Who  is  Grief?" 

"  Miss  Catty  Clowrie — isn't  there  music  in  that  name  ? 
She  makes  a  very  good  Grief — looks  as  if  she  had  supped 
sorrow  in  spoonfuls." 

" Is  she  pretty?     She  won't  let  us  see  her  face." 

"  Beauty's  a  matter  of  taste,"  said  Val,  "  perhaps  you'll 
think  her  pretty.  If  you  do,  you  will  be  the  only  one 
who  ever  thought  the  like.  She  is  a  nice  little  girl  though, 
is  Catty  —  the  double-distilled  essence  of  good-natm-e. 
Down  goes  the  curtain  !" 

It  rose  next  on  a  totally  different  scene,  and  to  music 
solemn  and  sad.  The  stage  was  darkened,  and  made  as 
much  as  possible  to  resemble  a  convent-cell.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  religious  pictures  and  statues,  a  coverless 
deal  table  held  a  crucifix,  an  open  missal,  and  a  candle 
which  flared  and  guttered  in  the  draft.  On  a  prie-dieu 
before  the  table  a  ligure  knelt — a  nun,  eyes  uplifted,  the 
young  face,  quite  colorless,  raised,  the  hands  holding  her 
rosary,  clasped  in  prayer.  It  was  Evangeline — beautiful, 
broken-hearted  Evangeline — tlie  white  face,  the  great 
dark  lustrous  eyes  full  of  unspeakable  woe.  Fainter, 
sweeter  and  sadder  the  music  wailed  out;  dimmer  and 
dimmer  paled  tlie  lights;  all  hushed  their  breathing  to 
watch.  The  kneeling  ligure  never  moved,  the  face  looked 
deadly  pale  by  the  flickering  candle-gleam,  and  slowly  the 
curtain  began  to  descend.  It  was  down ;  the  tableau  was 
over;  the  music  closed,  but  for  a  second  or  two  not  a 
sound  was  to  be  heard.  Then  a  tumult  of  applause  broke 
out  rapturously,  and  "Encore,  encore!"  twenty  voices 
cried,  in  an  ecstasy. 

Captaui  Cavendish  turned  to  Val  with  an  enthusiastic 
face. 


NATHALIE.  17 

"  By  George,  Blake !  what  a  beautiful  girl !  Evange- 
line herself  never  was  lialf  so  lovely.     Who  is  she  ?" 

"  That's  Natty,"  said  Yal,  with  composure.  "  Charley 
Marsh's  sister." 

"  I  never  saw  a  lovelier  face  in  all  my  life  !  Blake, 
you  must  give  me  an  introduction  as  soon  as  these  tableaux 
are  over." 

"  All  right !  But  you  needn't  fall  in  love  with  her — 
it's  of  no  use." 

"  Why  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Because  the  cantankerous  old  toad  who  owns  her  will 
never  let  her  get  married." 

"  Do  you  mean  her  mother  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,  she  doesn't  live  with  her  mother.  And, 
besides,  she  has  no  room  in  her  heart  for  any  one  but 
Charley.     She  idolizes  him  !" 

"  Happy  fellow  !  That  Evangeline  was  perfect.  I 
never  saw  anything  more  exquisite." 

"  I  don't  believe  Longfellow's  Evangeline  was  half  as 
good-lookmg  as  Natty,"  said  Yal.  "Oh !  there  she  is 
again  !" 

Val  stopped  talking.  The  curtain  had  arisen  on  an 
old  scene — "  Bebecca  at  the  well."  Evangeline  had  trans- 
formed herself  into  a  Jewish  maiden  in  an  incredibly  short 
6j)ace  of  time,  and  stood  with  her  pitcher  on  her  shoulder, 
looking  down  on  Eleazer  at  her  feelf.  Sand}'  McGregor 
was  Eleazer,  and  a  sorry  Jew  he  made,  but  nobody  except 
his  mother  looked  at  him.  Like  a  young  queen  Bebecca 
stood,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  bracelets  and  rings,  her  hair 
falling  in  a  shower  of  golden  bronze  ripples  over  her  bare 
white  shouldei-s.  One  would  have  expected  black  hair 
with  those  luminous  dark  eyes,  but  no  ebon  tresses  could 
have  been  half  so  magnificent  as  that  waving  mass  of 
darkened  gold. 

"  Nice  hair,  isn't  it  ?"  whispered  Val.  "  Natty's  proud 
of  her  hair  and  her  voice  beyond  anything.  You  ought 
to  hear  her  sing !" 

"  She  sings  well  ?"  Captain  Cavendish  asked,  his  eye« 
fixed  as  if  fascinated  on  the  beautiful  face. 


18  NATHALIE. 

"  Like  another  Jenny  Lind !  She  leads  the  chou*  up 
there  in  the  cathedral,  and  plays  the  organ  besides." 

Captain  Cavendish  had  a  pretty  pink  half-blown  rose 
in  his  button-hole,  lie  took  it  out  and  flung  it  at  her  feet 
as  the  curtain  was  going  down.  He  had  time  to  see  her 
bright  dark  eye  tura  upon  it,  then  with  a  little  pleased 
smile  over  the  spectators  in  quest  of  the  donor,  and  then 
that  envious  green  curtain  hid  all  again. 

"  Very  neat  and  appropriate,"  criticised  Yal.  "  You're 
not  going  to  Vvait  for  the  introduction  to  begin  your  love- 
passage,  I  see.  Captain  Cavendish." 

The  captain  laughed. 

"  Nothing  like  taking  time  by  the  forelock,  my  dear 
fellow.  I  will  never  be  able  to-  thank  you  sufficiently  for 
bringing  me  here  to-night !" 

"You don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  Yal,  opening  his  eyes, 
"  you  never  mean  to  say  you're  in  love  already,  do  you  ?" 

"It's  something  very  like  it,  then.  Where  are  you 
going  ?" 

"  Behind  the  scenes.  The  next  is  '  Jack  and  the  Bean- 
stalk,' and  they  want  me  for  the  beanstalk,"  said  Yal, 
complacently,  as  his  long  legs  strode  over  the  carpet  on 
his  way  to  the  back  parlor. 

There  were  ever  so  many  tableaux  after  that — Captain 
Cavendish,  impatient  and  fidgety,  wondered  if  they  would 
ever  end.  Perhaps  you  don't  believe  in  love  at  first  sight, 
dear  reader  mine  ;  perhaps  I  don't  myself ;  but  Captain 
Cavendish,  of  Her  Most  Gracious  Majesty's  — th  Regi- 
ment of  Artillery  did,  and  had  fallen  in  love  at  first 
sight  at  least  a  dozen  times  within  quarter  that  number  of 
years. 

Captain   Cavendish    had    to  exercise    the  virtue  of 

,>  patience  for  another  half -hour,  and  then  the  end  came.      ^ 

'ij        In  flocked  the  performers,  in  laughing  commotion,  to 

*  find  themselves  surrounded  by  the  rest,  and  showered  with 

congratulations.     Captain  Cavendish  stood  apart,  leaning 

against  a  fauteuil,  stroking  his  mustache  thoughtfully,  anS 

looking  on.     Looking  on  one  face  and  form  only  of  all  the 

dozens  before  him ;  a  form  tall,  taller  than  the  average 

height,  slender,  graceful,  and  girlish  as  became  its  owner's 


NATHALIE.  19 

eigliteon  years;  and  a  face  inexpressibly  lovely  in  the 
garish  gaslight.  There  was  nobility  as  well  as  beauty  in 
that  classic  profile,  that  broad  brow  ;  fire  in  those  laughing 
blue  e3'es,  so  dark  that  you  nearly  mistook  them  for  black ; 
resolution  in  those  molded  lips,  the  sweetest  that  ever 
were  kissed.  The  hair  alone  of  Kathalie  Marsh  would 
have  made  a  plain  face  pretty ;  it  hung  loose  over  her 
shoulders  as  it  had  done  on  the  stage,  reaching  to  her 
waist,  a  cloud  of  spun  gold,  half  waves,  half  curls,  half 
yellow  ripples. 

Few  could  have  worn  this  hair  like  that,  but  it  was 
eminently  becoming  to  Nathalie,  whom  everything  became. 
Her  dress  was  of  rose  color,  of  a  tint  just  deeper  than  the 
rose  color  in  her  cheeks,  thin  and  flouting,  and  she  was 
entirely  without  ornament,  A  half-blown  rose  was  fast- 
ened in  the  snowy  lace  of  her  corsage,  a  rose  that  had 
decked  the  buttonhole  of  Captain  Cavendish  half  an  hour 
before. 

Yal  espied  him  at  last  and  came  over.  "Are  you 
making  a  tableau  of  yourself,"  he  asked,  "  for  a  certain 
pair  of  bright  eyes  to  admire  ?  I  saw  them  wandering 
curiously  this  way  two  or  three  times  since  we  came  in." 

"  Whose  were  they?" 

"  Miss  Nathalie  Marsh's.     Come  and  be  introduced." 

"But  she  is  surrounded," 

"Never  mind,  they'll  make  way  for  you.  Standout 
of  the  way,  Sandy.  Lo !  the  conquering  hero  comes ! 
Miss  Marsh,  let  me  present  Captain  Cavendish,  of  the 
— th  ;  Miss  Marsh,  Captain  Cavendish." 

The  music  at  that  instant  stnick  up  a  delicious  waltz. 
Mr.  Val  J>lakc,  without  ceremony,  laid  hold  of  the  nearest 
young  lady  he  could  grab. 

"Come,  Catty  I  let's  take  a  twist  or  two.  That's  it, 
Cavendish  !  follo^v'  in  our  wake !" 

For  Captain  Cavendish,  havhig  asked  Miss  Marsh  to 
waltz,  was  leading  her  off,  and  received  the  encouraging 
nod  of  Val  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  What  a  character  he  is !"  he  said,  looking  after  Val, 
spiiming  around   with   considerable    more   energy   than 


20  NATHALIE. 

grace ;  "  the  most  unceremonious  and  best-natured  fellow 
in  existence." 

The  young  lady  laughed. 

"Oh,  everybody  likes  Val!  Have  you  known  him 
long?'* 

"  About  a  year.  I  have  seen  him  in  Hahfax  frequently, 
and  we  are  the  greatest  friends,  I  assure  you.  Damon  and 
Pythias  were  nothing  to  us !" 

"  It  is  something  new  for  Mr.  Blake  to  be  so  enthu- 
siastic, then.  Pytliias  is  a  new  role  for  him.  I  hope  he 
played  it  better  than  he  did  Robert  Bruce  in  that  horrid 
tableau  awhile  ago." 

They  both  laughed  at  the  recollection.  Natty  scented 
her  rose. 

"  Some  one  threw  me  this.  Gallant,  wasn't  it  ?  I 
love  roses." 

"  Sweets  to  the  sweet !  I  am  only  sorry  I  had  not 
something  more  worthy  'Evangeline,'  than  that  poor 
little  flower." 

"  Then  it  it  was  you.  I  thought  so !  Thank  you  for 
the  rose  and  the  compliment.  One  is  as  pretty  as  the 
other." 

She  laughed  saucily,  her  bright  eyes  flashing  a  danger- 
ous glance  at  him.  Next  instant  they  were  floating 
round,  and  round,  and  round ;  and  Captain  Cavendish 
began  to  think  the  world  must  be  a  great  rose  garden,  and 
Speckport  Eden,  since  in  it  he  had  found  his  Eve.  Not 
quite  his  yet,  though,  for  the  moment  the  waltz  concluded, 
a  dashing  and  dangerously  good-looking  young  fellow 
stepped  coolly  up  and  bore  her  off. 

Val  having  given  his  partner  a  finishing  whirl  into  a 
seat,  left  her  there,  and  came  up,  wiping  his  face. 

"  By  jingo,  'tis  hard  work,  and  Catty  Clowrie  goes 
the  pace  with  a  veno^eance.     IIow  do  you  like  Natty  ?" 

" '  Like '  is  not  the  word.  Who  is  that  gentleman  she 
is  walking  with  2" 

"  Tliat — where  are  they  ?  Oh,  I  see — that  is  Captain 
Locksley,  of  the  merchant-service.  The  army  and  navy 
forever,  eh  !    Where  are  you  going  ?" 


NATHALIE.  81' 

"Out  of  tliis  hot  room  a  moment.  I'll  be  back 
directly." 

Mrs.  McGregor  came  up  and  aslved  Yal  to  join  a  wliist- 
party  slie  was  getting  up.  "  And  be  my  partner,  Yal," 
slie  enjoined,  as  she  led  him  off,  "  because  you're  the  best 
cheat  I  know  of." 

Val  was  soon  completely  absorbed  in  the  fascinations 
cJf  whist,  at  a  penny  a  game,  but  the  announcement  of 
sapper  soon  broke  up  both  card-playing  and  dancing  ;  and 
as  he  rose  from  the  table  he  caught  sight  of  Captain  Caven- 
dish just  entering.  His  long  legs  crossed  the  room  in 
three  strides. 

"  You've  got  back,  have  you  ?  What  have  you  been 
about  all  this  time  2"     . 

"  I  was  smoking  a  cigar  out  there  on  the  steps,  and 
getting  a  little  fresh  au* — no,  fog,  for  I'll  take  my  oath  its 
thick  enough  to  be  cut  with  a  knife.  When  I  was  in 
London,  I  thought  I  knew  something  of  fog,  but  Speck- 
port  beats  it  all  to  nothing," 

"  Yes,"  said  Ya!,  gravely,  "  it's  one  of  the  institutions 
of  the  country,  and  we're  proud  of  it.  Did  you  see 
Charley  Marsh  anywhere  in  your  travels.  I  heard  Natty 
just  now  asking  for  him." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Tve  seen  him,'\6aid  Captain  Cavendish,  sig- 
nificantly. 

There  was  that,  in  his  tone  which  made  Yal  look  at 
him.  "Where  was  he  and  what  was  he  doing?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Making  love,  to  your  first  question ;  sitting  in  a 
recess  of  the  tall  window,  to  your  second.  He  did  not  see 
me,  but  I  saw  him." 

"  Who  was  he  with  V 

"  Something  very  pretty — prettier  than  anything  in 
this  room,  excepting  Miss  Katty.  Black  eyes,  black  curls, 
rosy  cheeks,  and  th3  dearest  little  waist !     Who  is  she  2" 

Yal  gave  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?"  persisted  Captain  Cavendish. 

"Oh,  don't  I  though?  Was  she  little,  and  was  she 
laugliing  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  both  questions.    Now,  who  is  she  ?" 


22  NATHALIE. 

Val's  answer  was  a  shower  of  mysterious  nods. 

"  1  heard  the  storj  before,  but  I  didn't  think  the  boy 
was  sucli  a  fool.  Speckport  is  such  a  place  for  gossip,  you 
know;  but  it  seems  the  gossips  were  right  for  once. 
What  will  Natty  say,  1  wonder^" 

"  "Will  you  tell  me  who  she  is  ?"  cried  Captain  Caven- 
dish, impatiently. 

"  Come  to  supper,"  was  Yal's  answer ;  "  I'm  too  hun- 
gry to  talk  now.     I'll  tell  you  about  it  by-and-by." 

Charley  was  before  them  at  the  table,  helping  all  the 
young  ladies  right  and  left,  and  keeping  up  a  running  lire 
of  jokes,  old  and  new,  stale  and  original,  and  setting  the 
table  in  a  roar.  Everybody  was  talking  and  laughing  at 
the  top  of  their  lungs ;  glass  and  china,  and  knives  and 
forks,  rattled  and  jingled  until  the  uproar  became  deafen- 
ing, and  people  shouted  vni\i  laughter,  without  in  the 
least  knowing  what  they  were  laughing  at.  The  raus- 
tached  lip  of  Captain  Cavendish  curled  with  a  little  con- 
temptuous smile  at  the  whole  thing,  and  Miss  Jeannette 
McGregor,  who  had  managed  to  get  him  beside  her,  saw 
it,  and  felt  lit  to  die  with  mortification. 

"  ^Vhat  a  dreadful  noise  they  do  keep  up.  It  makes 
my  head  ache  to  listen  to  them  1"  she  said,  resentfully. 

Captain  Cavendish,  who  had  been  listening  to  her 
tattle-tittle  for  the  last  half-hour,  answering  yes  and  no  at 
random,  started  into  consciousness  tliat  she  was  talking 
again. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  McGregor.  What  was  it 
you  said  ?    I  am  afraid  I  was  not  attending." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  were  not,"  said  Miss  McGregor, 
forcing  a  laugh,  while  biting  her  lips.  "  They  are  going 
back  to  the  drawing-room — Dleu  mercl!  It  is  like  Babel 
being  here." 

"Let  ns.  wait,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  eying  the 
crowd,  and  beginning  to  be  gallant.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
have  you  jostled  to  death.  One  would  think  it  was  for 
life  or  death  they  were  pushing." 

It  was  fully  ten  minutes  before  the  coast  was  clear, 
and  then  tlie  captain  drew  ML?3  Jeannette's  arm  \vithia 
his,  and  led  her  to  the  drawing-room.     Mrs.  McGregor, 


NATHALIE.  28 

sitting  there  among  her  satellites,  saw  them,  and  the  ma- 
ternal bosom  glowed  with  pride.  It  was  the  future  Mar- 
quis and  Marcliioness  of  Carrabas ! 

Some  one  was  singing.  A  splendid  soprano  voice  was 
ringing  through  the  room,  singing,  "Hear  me,  Norma." 
It  iinirflied  as  they  drew  near,  and  the  singer,  Miss  Natty 
Mareh,  glancing  over  her  shoulder,  flashed  one  of  her 
bright  bewitching  glances  at  them. 

She  rose  up  from  the  piano,  flirting  out  her  gauze 
skirts,  and  laughing  at  the  shower  of  entreaties  to  eiiig 
again. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  some  engravings  Alick  has  prom- 
ised to  show  me,"  she  said ;  "  so  spare  your  eloquence, 
Mesdames  et  Messieurs.     I  am  inexorable." 

"I  tliink  I  will  go  over  and  have  a  look  at  the  engrav- 
ings, too,"  said  Captain  Cavendish. 

She  was  sitting  at  a  little  stand,  all  her  bright  hair 
loose  around  her,  and  shading  the  pictures.  Young  Mc- 
Gregor w^as  bending  devoutly  near  her,  but  not  talking, 
only  too  happy  to  be  just  there,  and  talking  was  not  the 
young  gentleman's  forte. 

'"  Captain  Cavendish,"  said  the  clear  voice,  as,  without 
turning  round,  she  held  the  engraving  over  her  shoulder, 
"look  at  this — is  it  not  pretty? 

How  had  she  seen  Inra  ?  Had  she  eyes  in  the  back  of 
her  head  ?  He  took  the  engraving,  wondering  inwardly, 
and  sat  down  beside  her. 

It  was  a  strange  picture  she  had  given  him.  A  black 
and  wrathful  sky,  a  black  and  heaving  sea,  and  a  long 
strip  of  black  and  desolate  coast.  A  full  moon  flickered 
ghastly  through  the  scudding  clouds,  and  wan  in  its  light 
you  saw  a  girl  standing  on  a  high  rock,  straining  her  eves 
out  to  sea.  Her  hair  and  dress  fluttered  in  the  wind ;  her 
face  was  wild,  spectral,  and  agonized.  Captain  Cavendish 
gazed  on  it  as  if  fascinated. 

"  What  a  story  it  tells !"  Nathalie  cried.  "  It  makes 
one  think  of  Charles  Kingsley's  weird  song  of  the  '  Three 
Fishers.'     Well,  Charley,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  It  is  the  carryall  from  Redmon  come  for  you,"  said 


24  NATHALIE. 

Charley,  who  had  sauntered  up.  "  If  you  are  done  look- 
ing at  the  pictures  you  had  better  go  home." 

Natty  pushed  the  portfoKo  away  pettishly,  and  rose, 
half-poutingly. 

"What  a  nuisance,  to  go  so  soon !" 

Then,  catching  Captain  Cavendish's  eye,  she  laughed 
good-naturedly. 

"  What  can't  be  cured — ^you  know  the  proverb,  Cap- 
tain Cavendish.  Charley,  wait  for  me  in  the  hall,  I  will 
be  there  directly." 

She  crossed  the  room  with  the  airy  elegance  pecuHar 
to  her  light  swinging  tread,  made  her  adieux  quietly  to 
the  hostess,  and  sought  her  wrappings  and  the  dressing- 
room. 

As  she  ran  down  into  the  hall  in  a  large  shawl,  grace- 
fully worn,  and  a  white  cloud  round  her  pretty  face,  she 
found  Captain  Cavendish  waiting  with  Charley.  It  was 
he  who  offered  her  his  arm,  and  Charley  ran  down  the 
steps  before  them.  Through  tlie  wet  fog  they  saw  an 
old-fashioned  two-seated  buggy  waiting,  and  the  driver 
looking  impatiently  down. 

"  I  wish  you  would  drive  up  with  me,  Charley,"  said 
Natty,  settling  herself  in  her  seat. 

"  Can't,"  said  Chai-ley.  "  I  am  going  to  see  some- 
body else's  sister  home.  I'll  take  a  run  up  to-morrow 
evening." 

"  Miss  Marsh,"  Captain  Cavendish  lazily  began,  "  if 

you  will  permit  me  to "  but  Natty  cut  him  short  with 

a  gay  laugh. 

"  And  make  all  the  young  ladies  in  there  miserable 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening !  No,  thank  you !  I  am  not 
quite  so  heartless.     Good  night !" 

She  leaned  forward  to  say  it,  the  next  moment  she 
'  was  lost  in  the  fog.  He  cauglit  one  glimpse  of  a  white 
hand  waved,  of  the  lialf -saucy,  half-wicked,  wholly-be- 
witching smile,  of  the  dancing  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
and  then  there  was  nothing  but  a  pale  blank  of  mist  and 
wet,  and  Charley  was  speaking : 

"Hang  the  fog!  it  goes  through  one  like  a  knife  1 
Come  along  in,  captain,  they  are  going  to  dance." 


MISS    HOSE.  25 

Captain  Cavendish  went  in,  but  not  to  dance.  He 
had  come  from  curiosity  to  see  what  the  Speckportonians 
were  like,  not  intending  to  remain  over  an  hour  or  so. 
Now  that  Natty  was  gone,  there  was  no  inducement  to 
stay.  He  sought  out  Mrs.  McGregor,  to  say  good- 
night. • 

"  What's  your  Inirry  ?"  said  Yal,  following  him  out. 

"  It  is  growing  late,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  am 
eleepy.     Will  you  be  in  the  office  to-morrovv  morning  ?•' 

"*From  eiglit  till  two,"  said  Val. 

"  Then  I'll  drop  in.     Good  night !" 

The  cathedral  clock  struck  three  as  he  came  out  into 
the  drizzly  morning,  and  all  the  other  clocks  in  the  town 
took  it  up.  The  streets  were  empty,  as  he  walked  rapidly 
to  his  lodgings,  with  buttoned-up  overcoat,  and  hat  drawn 
over  his  eyes.  But  a  "  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay " 
were  with  him,  flashing  on  him  through  the  fog;  hunting 
iiim  all  the  way  home,  through  the  smur  and  mist  of  the 
dismal  day-dawn. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MISS  EOSE. 

IGHT  was  striking  by  every  clock  in  the  town,  as 
down  Queen  Street — the  Broadway  of  Speck- 
port — a  tall  female  streamed,  with  a  step  that 
rang  and  resounded  on  the  wooden  pavement. 
The  tall  female,  nodding  to  her  acquaintances 
right  and  left,  and  holding  up  her  bombazine  skirts  out 
of  the  slop,  was  Miss  Jo  Blake,  as  bright  as  a  new  penny, 
though  she  had  not  had  a  wink  of  sleep  the  night  before. 
Early  as  the  hour  was,  Miss  Jo  was  going  to  make  a 
morning  calJ,  and  strode  on  through  the  fog  with  her 
head  up,  and  a  nod  for  nearly  every  one  she  passed. 

Down  Queen  Street  Miss  Jo  turned  to  the  left,  and 
kept  straight  on,  facing  the  bay,  all  blurred  and  misty,  sc 
2 


«6  MISS    ROSE. 

tliat  you  cotild  hardly  tell  where  the  fo^  ended  and  the 
sun  began.  The  business  part  of  tlie  town,  with  its  noise 
and  rattle  and  bustle,  was  left  half  a  mile  behind,  and 
Miss  Jo  turned  into  a  pretty  and  quiet  street,  right  down 
on  the  sea-shore.  It  wds  called  Cottage  Street,  very  ap- 
propriately, too  y  for  all  the  houses  in  it  were  cozy  littlo 
cottages,  a  story  and  a  half  high,  all  as  much  alike  is  'i 
turned  out  of  a  mold.  They  were  all  painted  white,  had 
a  red  door  in  the  center,  and  two  windows  on  either  side 
of  the  door,  decorated  witli  green  shutters.  They  had 
little  grass-plots  and  flower-beds  in  front,  with  white  pal- 
ings, and  white  gate,  and  a  little  graveled  path,  and  be- 
hind they  had  vegetable-yards  sloping  right  down  to  the 
very  water.  If  you  leaned  over  the  fences  at  the  lower 
end  of  these  gardens,  on  a  stormy  day,  and  at  high  tide, 
you  could  feel  the  salt  spray  dashing  up  in  3'our  face, 
from  the  waves  below.  At  low  water,  there  was  a  long, 
smooth,  sandy  beach,  delightful  to  walk  over  on  hot  sum- 
mer days. 

Before  one  of  the  cottages  Miss  Jo  drew  rein,  and 
rapped.  While  waiting  for  the  door  to  open,  the  flutter 
of  a  skirt  in  the  back  garden  caught  her  eye ;  and,  peering 
round  the  comer  of  the  house,  she  had  a  full  view  of  it 
and  its  wearer. 

And  Miss  Jo  set  herself  to  contemplate  the  view  witli 
keenest  interest.  To  see  the  wearer  of  that  fluttering 
skirt  it  was  that  had  brought  Miss  Jo  all  t!ie  way  from 
her  own  home  so  early  in  the  morning,  though  she  had 
never  set  eyes  on  her  before. 

Uncommonly  friendly,  perhaps  you  are  thinking.  'Not 
at  all:  Miss  Jo  was  a  woman,  consequently  curious;  and 
curiosity,  not  kindness,  had  brought  her  out. 

The  sight  was  very  well  woith  looking  at.  You  miglit 
have  gazed  for  a  week,  steadily,  and  not  grown  tired  of 
the  prospect.  A  figure,  slender  and  small,  wearing  a 
black  dress,  white  linen  cuifs  r.t  the  wrists,  a  white  linen 
collar,  fastened  with  a  knot  of  crape,  a  profusion  of  pretty 
brown  hair,  worn  in  braids,  and  low  in  the  neck,  hands 
like  a  child's,  small  and  white.  She  -./as  leaning  against 
a  tree,  a  gnarled  old  rowan  tree,  with  her  face  turned  sea- 


MTSS    ROSE.  27 

ward,  watching  the  fishing-boats  gliding  in  and  out 
throngli  the  fog;  but  presently,  at  some  noise  in  the 
Btreet,  she  glanced  around,  and  Miss  Jo  saw  her  face.  A 
small,  pale  face,  very  pale,  with  pretty  features,  and  lit 
with  large,  soft  eyes.  A  face  that  was  a  history,  could 
Miss  Jo  have  read  it ;  j^ale  and  patient,  gentle  and  sweet, 
and  in  the  brown  eye  a  look  of  settled  melancholy^ 
This  young  lady  in  black  had  been  learning  the  great  les- 
son of  life,  that  most  of  us  poor  mortals  must  learn, 
sooner  or  later,  endurance  —the  lesson  One  too  sublime 
to  name  came  on  earth  to  teach. 

Miss  Jo  dodged  back,  the  door  swung  open,  and  a  fat 
girl,  bursting  out  of  her  hooks  and  eyes,  and  with  a  head 
Eke  a  tow  mop,  opened  the  door.  Miss  Jo  strode  in  with- 
ont  ceremony. 

"  Good  n)orning,  Betsy  Ann !  Is  Mrs.  Marsh  at  home 
this  morning?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Jo,"  said  Betsy  Ann,  opening  a  door  to 
the  left,  for  there  was  a  door  on  either  hand  ;  that  to  the 
right,  leading  to  the  drawing-room  of  the  cottage,  and  a 
staircase  at  the  end  leading  to  the  sleeping-roora  above ; 
the  door  to  the  left  admitted  you  to  the  sitting-room  and 
dining-room,  for  it  was  both  in  one — a  pleasant  little  room 
enough,  Avith  a  red  and  green  ingrain  carpet,  cane-seated 
chairs,  red  moreen  window-curtains  on  tlie  two  windows, 
one  looking  on  the  bay,  the  other  on  the  street.  There 
was  a  little  upright  piano  in  one  corner,  a  lounge  in  an- 
other ;  pictures  on  the  papered  walls ;  a  Dutch  clock  and 
some  china  cats  and  dogs  and  shepherdesses  on  the  man- 
telpiece ;  a  coal-fire  in  the  Franklin,  and  a  table  laid  for 
breakfast. 

The  room  had  but  one  occupant,  a  faded  and  feeble- 
looking  woman,  who  sat  in  a  low  rocking-chair,  lier  feet 
crossed  on  the  fender,  a  shawl  around  her,  and  a  book  in 
her  hand.  She  looked  up  in  her  surprise  at  her  early 
visitor. 

"  Law !  Miss  Blake,  is  it  you  ?  "Who'd  have  thought 
it  ?     Betsy  Ann,  give  Miss  Blake  a  chair." 

"  It's  quite  a  piece  from  our  house  here,  and  I  feel 
kind  of  tired,"  said  Miss  Jo,  seating  hei-self .     "  Your  fire 


28  MISS    ROSE. 

feels  comfortable,  Mrs.  Marsli ;  these  foggy  days  are  chilly. 
Ain't  you  had  breakfast  yet  ?" 

"  It's  all  Charley- s  fault ;  he  hasn't* come  down  staii-a 
yet.    How  did  you  enjoy  yourself  at  the  party  last  night  ?" 

"  Firet-rate.  Never  went  home  till  six  this  morning, 
and  then  I  had  to  turn  to  and  make  Val  his  breakfast. 
Charley  left  early." 

"Early!"  retorted  Mrs.  Marsh;  "I  don't  know  what 
you  call  early.  It  was  after  six  when  he  came  here,  Betsy 
Ann  says." 

'•  Well,  that's  odd,"  said  Miss  Jo.  "  He  left  McGreg- 
or's about  half  past  three,  anyway.  Did  you  hear  they 
had  an  officer  there  last  nicjht  T 

"  An  officer !     No.     Who  is  it?" 

"  His  name  is  Captain  Cavendish,  and  a  beautiful  man 
he  is,  with  a  diamond  ring  on  his  linger,  ipy  dear,  and  the 
look  of  a  real  gentleman.  His  folks  ai*e  very  great  in 
England.  His  brother's  the  Marquis  of  Cabbage — Carra- 
ways — no,  I  forget  it ;  but  Yal  knows  all  about  him." 

"  Law!'  exclaimed  Mrs,  Marsh,  opening  her  light-blue 
eyes,  "  a  Marquis !     Who  brought  him  ?" 

"Yal  did.  Val  knows  every  one,  I  believe,  and  got 
acquainted  with  him  in  Halifax.  You  never  saw  any  one 
so  proud  as  Mr.  McGregor.  I  didn't  say  anything,  my 
dear ;  1)ut  I  thought  of  the  time  when  lords  and  marquises, 
and  dukes  and  captains  without  end,  used  to  be  entertain- 
ed at  C:istle  Blake,"  said  Miss  Jo,  sighing. 

"And  what  does  he  look  like?  Is  he  handsome?" 
asked  Mi*s.  Marsh,  with  interest ;  for  Castle  Blake  and  its 
melancholy  reminiscences  were  an  old  story  to  her. 

"  Uncommon,"  said  Miss  Jo ;  "  and  I  believe  Mrs.  Mc- 
Gregor thinks  her  Jane  will  get  him.  You  never  saw  any 
one  so  tickled  in  your  life.  Why  weren't  you  up  ? — I  ex- 
pected you." 

"  I  couldn't  go.  Miss  Hose  came  just  as  I  was  getting 
ready,  and  of  course  I  had  to  stay  with  her." 

"  Oh,  the  new  teacher !  I  saw  a  young  woman  in  black 
standing  in  the  background  as  I  came  in ;  was  that  her  T 
said  Miss  Jo,  who  did  not  always  choose  to  be  confined  to 
the  rules  of  severe  grammar. 


MISS    ROSE.  2% 

"  Yes,"  said  Mre.  Marsh ;  "  and  what  do  you  thiuk, 
Miss  Blake,  if  she  wasn't  up  this  morning  before  six 
o'clock  ?  Betsy  Ann  always  rises  at  six,  and  when  she 
was  rolling  np  the  blind  Miss  Kose  came  down-stairs  al- 
ready dressed,  and  has  been  out  in  the  garden  ever  since. 
Betsy  Ann  says  she  was  weeding  the  flowers  most  of  tho 
time." 

"  She's  a  little  thing,  isn't  she  ?"  said  Miss  Jo ;  "  and  so 
delicate-looking !  I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  1x3  able  to 
manage  them  big  rough  girls  in  the  school.  What's  her 
other  name  besides  Miss  liose  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  looks  as  if  she  had  seen  trouble," 
said  Mrs.  Mui*sh,  pensively. 

"  Who  is  she  in  mourning,  for  ?" 

'•I  don't  know.  I  didn't  like  to  ask,  and  she  doesn't 
talk  much  herself." 

"  W^liere  did  she  come  from  ?    Montreal,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  I  forget,  xs  atty  knows.  Natty  was  here  last  night 
before  she  went  up  to  McGregor's.  She  said  she  would 
come  back  this  morning,  and  go  with  Miss  Rose  to  the 
school.  Here's  Charley  at  last.''  Miss  Jo  faced  round, 
and  confronted  that  young  gentleman  sauntering  in. 

"Well,  Sleeping  Beauty,  you've  got  up  now,  have 
you  ?"  was  her  salute.  "  How  do  you  feel  after  all  you 
danced  last  night  f 

"  Never  better.  You're  out  betimes  this  morning, 
Miss  Jo." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Jo ;  "  the  sun  don't  catch  me  sim- 
mering in  bed  like  it  does  some  folks.  Did  it  take  you 
from  half-past  three  till  six  to  get  home  tlus  morning,  Mr, 
Charles?" 

"  Who  says  it  was  six  ?"  said  Cliarley. 

"  Betsy  Ann  does,"  i^eplied  his  mother.  "  Where  were 
you  all  the  time  ?" 

"  Betsy  Ann's  eyes  were  a  couple  -of  hours  too  fast. 
I  say,  mother,  is  the  breakfast  ready  ?  It's  nearly  time  I 
was  oil," 

"  It's  been  ready  this  half-hour.     Betsy  Ann  I" 

That  maiden  appeared. 


80  mSS    ROSE. 

"  Qq  and  ask  Miss  Rose  to  please  come  iii  to  breakfast, 
and  then  fetch  the  coffee." 

Betsy  Ann  fled  olf,  and  Charley  glanced  out  of  the 
window. 

"  Miss  Hose  is  taking  a  constitutional,  is  she  ?  What 
is  she  like,  mother — pretty  ?  I  didn't  see  her  last  night, 
you  know." 

"  What  odds  is  it  to  you  ?"  demanded  Miss  Jo ;  "  she's 
not  as  pretty  as  Cherrie  ^Nettleby,  anyhow." 

Charley  turned  scarlet,  and  Miss  Jo's  eyes  twinkled  at 
the  success  of  her  random  shaft.  The  door  opened  at  that 
instant,  and  the  sniai],  slender  black  figure  glided  in. 
Glided  was  the  word  for  that  swift,  light  motion,  so  noise- 
less and  fleet. 

"  Good  moiTung,"  said  Mi's.  Marsh,  rising  smiling  to 
shake  liands ;  "you  are  an  early  bird,  I  And.  Miss  Blake, 
Miss  Rose — Miss  Rose,  my  son  Charles." 

My  son  Charles  and  Miss  Blake  both  shook  liands  wirh 
the  new  teacher,  and  welcomed  her  to  Speckport.  A  faint 
smile,  a  shy  fluttering  color  coming  and  goiiig  in  her  deli- 
cate checks,  and  a  few  low-murnmred  words,  and  then 
Miss  Rose  sat  down  on  the  chair  Charley  had  placed  for 
her,  her  pretty  eyes  flxed  on  the  coals,  her  small  childlike 
hands  fluttering  still  one  over  the  other.  Betsy  Ann 
came  in  with  the  coft'ee-pot  and  rolls  and  eggs,  and  Mrs. 
Mareh  invited  Miss  Jo  to  sit  over  and  have  some  break- 
fast. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Miss  Jo,  untying  lier  bon- 
net promptly.  "  I  didn't  feel  like  taking  anything  when 
Val  had  his  this  morning,  and  your  coflee  smells  good. 
Are  you  fond  of  coffee.  Miss  Rose  ?" 

Miss  Rose  smiled  a  httle  as  they  all  took  their 
places. 

'•  Yes,  I  like  it  very  well." 

"  Some  folks  like  tea  best,"  said  Miss  Jo,  pensively, 
stirring  in  a  third  teaspoouful  of  sugar  in  her  cup,  "but  i 
don't.     What  sort  of  a  journey  had  you.  Miss  Rose  ?" 

"  Very  pleasant,  indeed." 

"  You  arrived  yesterday  2" 

Miss  Rose  assented. 


MISS    ROSE.  tl 

"  "Was  it  from  Halif six  you  came  ?" 

"No,  ma'am;  from  Montreal." 

'•  Oh,  from  Montreal !  You  were  bom  ^  in  Montreal, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  I  was  born  in  New  York." 

"  Law !"  cried  Mrs.  Mai-sb,   "  then,  you're  a  Yankee,  > 
Miss  Rose  ?" 

"  Do  your  f ollcs  live  in  Montreal,  Miss  Rose  ?"  recom- 
menced the  persevering  Miss  Jo. 

The  faint,  rosy  light  flickered  and  faded  again  in  the 
face  of  Miss  Rose. 

"I  have  no  relatives,"  she  said,  without  lifting  her 
«yes. 

"  None  at  all !  Father,  nor  mother,  nor  brothers,  nor 
sisters,  nor  nothing." 

"  1  have  none  at  all." 

"  Dear  me,  that's  a  pity  !    Who  are  you  in  black  for  ?" 

There  was  a  pause — then  Miss  Rose  answered,  still 
without  looking  up  : 

"  For  my  father." 

"  Oh,  for  your  father !  Has  he  been  long  dead  ?  An- 
other cup,  if  you  please.  Betsy  Ann  knows  how  to  make 
nice  coffee." 

"  He  has  been  dead  ten  months,"  said  Miss  Rose,  a 
flash  of  intolerable  pain  dyeing  her  pale  cheeks  at  this 
questioning. 

"  How  do  you  think  you'll  like  Speckport  ?"  went  on 
the  dauntless  Miss  Jo.  "  It's  not  equal  to  Montreal  or 
New  York,  they  tell  me,  but  the  Bluenoses  think  there's 
no  place  like  it.  Poor  things  !  if  they  once  saw  Dublin, 
it's  little  thev'd  think  of  such  a  place  as  this  is." 

"  Halte  la  !"  cried  Charley  ;  "  please  to  remember, 
Miss  Jo,  I  am  a  native,  to  the  manner  born,  an  out-and-out 
Bluenose,  and  will  stand  no  nonsense  about  Speckport ! 
There's  no  place  like  it.  See  Speckport  and  die !  Mother, 
I'll  trouble  you  for  some  of  that  toast." 

"  "Won't  you  have  some.  Miss  Rose  ?"  said  Mrs.  Marsh. 
"  You  ain't  eating  anything." 

"Not  any  more,  thank  you.  I  like  Specki>ort  very 
much.  Miss  I3kike  ;  all  I  have  seen  of  it." 


82  MISS    HOSE. 

"  That's  right,  Miss  Rose !"  exclaimed  Charley  ;  "  say 
you  like  fog  and  all.  Are  you  going  to  commence  teach- 
ing to-day  '^" 

"  I  should  prefer  commencing  at  once.  Miss  Marsh 
said  she  was  coming  this  morning,  did  she  not?"  Miss 
Eose  asted,  lifting  her  shy  brown  eyes  to  Mi-s.  Marsh. 

"  Yes,  dear.  Charley,  what  time  did  Natty  go  home 
laBt  night  2" 

"  She  didn't  go  home  last  night ;  it  was  half-past  two 
this  morning." 

«  Did  she  walk  ?" 

"  No ;  the  old  lady  sent  that  wheelbarrow  of  hers 
after  her." 

"  "WheelbaiTOw  !"  cried  his  mother,  aghast.  "  Why, 
Charley,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  It's  the  same  thing,"  said  Charley.  "  I'd  as  soon  go 
in  a  wheelbarrow  as  that  carryall.  Such  a  shabby  old 
rattle-trap  !     It's  like  nothing  but  the  old  dame  herself." 

"  Charley,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  Did 
you  go  with  her  ?" 

"  Not  I !  I  was  better  engaged.  Another  gentleman 
offered  his  services,  but  she  declined." 

"  Who  was  it  ?     Captain  Locksley  ?" 

"  No,  another  captain — Captain  Cavendish." 

"  Did  he  want  to  go  home  with  Natty  ?"  asked  Miss 
Jo,  with  interest.  "  I  thought  he  was  more  attentive  to 
her  than  to  Jane  McGregor !  Why  wouldn't  she  have 
him?" 

"  She  would  look  line  having  him — an  utter  stranger  I 
If  it  had  been  Locksley,  it  would  have  been  different. 
See  here,  Miss  Rose,"  Chailey  cried,  springing  up  in  alarm, 
"  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  She  is  going  to  faint !"  exclaimed  Miss  Jo,  in  con- 
t  stemation.     "  Charley,  run  for  a  glass  of  water." 

Miss  Rose  had  fallen  suddenly  back  in  her  seat,  her 
face  gromng  so  dreadfully  white  that  they  might  well  be 
startled.  It  was  nothing  for  Miss  Rose  to  look  pale,  only 
tiiis  was  like  the  pallor  of  death.  Charley  made  a  rush 
for  the  water,  and  was  back  in  a  twinkling,  holding  it  to 


MISS    ROSE.  38 

her  lips.     She  drank  a  portion,  pushed  it  away,  and  sat 
lip,  trying  to  smile. 

''  I  am  afraid  I  have  startled  you,"  she  said,  as  il 
necessary  to  apologize,  "  but  I  am  not  very  strong, 
and ^" 

Her  voice,  faltering  througliout,  died  entirely  away; 
and,  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table,  she  bowed  her  fore- 
head on  her  hands.  Miss  Jo  looked  at  her  with  com- 
pressed lips  and  prophetic  eye. 

"  You'll  never  stand  that  school,  Miss  Eose,  and  1 
thouglit  so  from  the  lirst.  Them  gii'ls  would  tiy  a  con- 
stitution of  iron,  let  alone  yours." 

Miss  Hose  lifted  her  white  face,  and  arose  from  the 
table. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  I  do  not  often 
get  weak,  like  this.     Thank  you !" 

She  had  gone  to  the  window,  as  if  for  air,  and  Cliai-ley 
had  sprung  forward  and  opened  it. 

"  Does  the  air  revive  you,  or  shall  I  fetch  you  sunie 
more  water  ?"  inquired  Charley,  with  a  face  full  of  con- 
cern. 

"Oh,  no!  indeed,  it  is  nothing.  I  am  quite  well 
now." 

"You  don't  look  like  it,"  said  Miss  Jo  ;  "you  are  as 
wliite  as  a  sheet  yet.  Don't  you  go  near  that  school  to- 
day, mind." 

Miss  Rose  essayed  a  smile. 

''  The  school  will  do  me  no  hann.  Miss  Blake — thank 
you  for  your  kindness  all  the  same." 

Miss  Jo  shook  her  head. 

"  You  ain't  fit  for  it,  and  that  you'll  find.  Are  you 
off,  Charley  ?"  ^ 

"  Very  hard,  isn't  it.  Miss  Jo  ?"  said  Charley,  drawing 
on  his  gloves.  "But  1  musjt  tear  myself  away.  Old 
Pestle  and  Mortar  will  be  fit  to  bastinado  me  for  staying 
till  this  time  of  day." 

"  Look  here,  then,"  said  Miss  Jo,  "  have  you  any  en- 
gagement particular  for  this  evening  f 

"  Particular  ?    no,   not   very.     1   promised   Natty  tc 
spend  the  evening  up  at  lledmou,  that's  all." 
2* 


84  MISS    ROSE. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,  then,  I  want  you  and  your 
mother,  and  Miss  Rose,  to  come  over  to  our  house  this 
evening,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea.  I'll  get  Natty  to  come, 
too." 

"  All  right,"  said  Charley,  boyishly,  taking  his  wide- 
awake. "  I'll  take  two  or  three  cups  if  you  like.  Good 
morning,  all.  Miss  Rose,  don't  you  go  and  use  yourself 
up  in  that  liot  school-room  to-day." 

Off  went  Charley,  whistling  "  Cheer,  boys,  cheer !" 
and  his  hands  rammed  down  in  his  coat-pockets  ;  and  Miss 
Jo  got  up  and  took  her  bonnet. 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  come,  Mre.  Marsh,  you  and  Miss 
Rose,  and  come  nice  and  early,  so  as  we  can  have  a 
chat." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mi-s.  Mareli,  "  if  Miss  Rose  has  no 
objection." 

Miss  Rose  hesitated  a  little,  and  glanced  at  her  mourn- 
ing dress,  and  from  it  to  Miss  Jo,  with  her  soft,  ^vistful 
eyes. 

"  I  have  not  gone  out  at  all  since — since " 

"  Yes,  dear,  i  know,"  said  Miss  Jo,  kindly,  interrupt- 
ing. "  But  it  isn't  a  party  or  anything,  only  just  two  or 
three  friends  to  spend  a  few  houi-s.  Kow,  don't  make  any 
objection.  I  shall  expect  you  both,  without  fail,  so  good- 
bye." 

With  one  of  her  familiar  nods.  Miss  Jo  strode  out, 
and  nearly  ran  against  a  young  lady,  who  was  opening  the 
gate. 

"  Is  it  you.  Miss  Jo?  You  nearly  knocked  me  down  ! 
You  must  have  been  up  with  the  birds  this  morning,  to 
get  here  so  soon." 

The  speaker  was  a  young  lady  who  had  been  at  Mi's. 
McGregor's  the  previous  night;  a  small,  wiry  damsel, 
with  sallow  face,  thin  lips,  dull,  yellow,  histerless  hair,  and 
light,  faded-looking  eyes.  She  was  not  pretty,  but  she 
looked  pleasant — that  is,  if  incessant  smiles  can  make  a 
face  pleasant — and  she  had  the  softest  and  sweetest  of 
voices — you  could  liken  it  to  nothing  but  the  purring  of  a 
cat;  and  her  hands  were  limp  and  velvety,  and  catlike 
too. 


MISS  nosE.  (w; 

Miss  Jo  nodded  her  recognition. 

"  How  d'ye  do.  Catty  ?  How  do  you  feel  after  last 
niglit  ?" 

"Yery  well." 

"  Well  enough  to  spend  this  evening  with  me  ?" 

Miss  Catty  Clowrie  laughed. 

"  I  am  always  well  enough  for  that,  Miss  Jo !  Are 
you  going  to  eclipse  Mrs.  McGregor?" 

"  JS^onseuse !  Mrs.  Mai-sh  and  Miss  Rose  are  coming 
to  take  tea  with  me,  that's  all,  and  I  want  you  to  come 
up." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to.  Are  Natty  and — Charley 
coming?" 

Miss  Jo  nodded  again,  and  without  further  parley 
walked  away.  As  she  turned  the  corner  of  Cottage  Street 
into  a  more  busy  thoroughfare,  known  as  Park  Lane,  she 
saw  a  lady  and  gentleman  taking  the  sidewalk  in  dashing 
style.  Everybody  looked  after  them,  and  everybody 
might  have  gone  a  long  way  without  finding  anytliing 
better  worth  looking  after.  The  young  lady's  tall,  slight, 
willowy  figure  was  set  off  by  a  close-fitting  black  cloth 
basque,  and  a  little,  coquettish,  black  velvet  cap  was 
placed  above  one  of  the  most  bewitching  faces  that  ever 
turned  a  man's  head.  Rosesfte,  smiling,  sunshiny,  the 
bright  blue  eyes  flashing  laughing  light  everywhere  they 
fell.  Her  gloved  hands  daintily  uplifting  her  skirts,  and 
displaying  the  pretty  high-heeled  boots,  as  she  sailed  along 
with  a  very  peculiar,  jaunty,  swinging  gait. 

And  quite  as  well  worth  looking  at,  in  his  way,  was 
her  cavalier,  gallant  and  handsonje,  v/ith  an  unmistakable 
military  stride,  and  an  unmistakable  military  air  general- 
ly, although  dressed  in  civilian's  clothes.  As  they  swept 
past  Miss  Jo,  the  young  lady  made  a  dashing  bow ;  and 
the  young  gentleman  lifted  his  hat.  Miss  Jo  stood,  with 
her  mouth  open,  gazing  after  tliem. 

"i^  splendid  couple,  ain't  they,  Miss  Blake?"  said  a 
man,  passing.  It  w;is  Mr.  Clowrie,  on  his  way  to  liis 
ofiicc,  and  Miss  Jo.  just  deigning  to  acknowle(^e  him, 
walked  on. 

"My  patience!"  was  her  mental  ejaculation,  "what 


86  VAL'S    OFFICE. 

a  swell  tliey  cut  1  He's  as  handsome  as  a  lord,  that  young 
man ;  and  she's  every  bit  as  good-looking !  I  must  go  up 
to  Redmon  this  afternoon,  and  ask  her  down.  "Wouldn't 
it  be  great  now,  if  that  should  turn  out  to  be  a  match  1" 


CHAPTER    ly. 

val's  office. 

|MONG  the  many  tall,  dingy  brick  buildings, 
fronting  on  that  busy  thoroughfare  of  Speck- 
port,  Queen  Street,  there  stood  one  to  the 
right  as  you  went  up,  taller  and  dingier,  if 
possible,  than  its  neighbors,  and  bearing  this 
legend  along  its  grimy  front,  "Office  of  Speckport 
Spouter."  "There  were  a  dozen  newspapers,  more  or 
less,  published  in  Speckport,  weekly,  semi-weekly,  and 
daily ;  but  the  Spouter  went  ahead  of  them  all,  and 
distanced  all  competitoi-s. 

At  about  half-past  seven  o'clock,  tliis  foggy  spring 
morning,  two  individuals  of  the  manly  sex  occupied  the 
principal  apartment  of  the  printing  establishment.  A 
dirty,  nasty,  noisy  place  it  generally  was  ;  and  dirty  and 
nasty,  though  not  very  noisy,  it  was  this  morning,  for  the 
only  sound  to  be  heard  was  the  voice  of  one  of  its  occu- 
pants, chattering  incessantly,  and  the  scratching  of  the 
other's  pen,  as  he  wrote,  perched  up  on  a  high  stool. 

The  writer  was  foreman  in  the  office,  a  sober-looking, 
middle-aged  man,  who  wore  spectacles,  and  wrote  away 
as  mechanically  as  if  he  was  doing  it  by  steam.  The 
speaker  was  a  lively  youth  of  twelve,  office-boy,  printer's 
devil,  and  errand-ninner,  and  gossiper-in-chief  to  the 
place.  His  name  was  in  the  baptismal  register  of  Speck- 
port  cathedral,  Wiliiara  Blair;  but  in  every-day  life  he 
was  Bill  Blair,  brother  tj  pretty  Laura,  whom  Val  Blako 
had  eulogized  as  "  such  a  girl  to  laugh." 


VArS     OFFICE.  87 

Laughter  seemed  to  be  a  weakness  in  the  family,  for 
Master  Jiill's  moutli  was  generally  stretched  in  a  steady 
grin  from  one  week's  end  to  the  other,  and  was,  just  at 
this  present  moment.  He  was  perched  np  on  another 
high  stool,  swinging  his  le^s  about,  chewing  gum,  looking 
out  of  the  window,  and  talking. 

"  And  there  goes  Old  Leach  in  his  gig,  tearing  along 
as  if  Old  Nick  was  after  him,"  went  on  [Plaster  Bill,  criti- 
cising the  passers-by.  "  Somebody's  kicking  the  bucket 
in  Speckport !  And  there's  Sim  Tod  hobbling  along  on 
his  stick  !  Now,  I  should  admire  to  know  how  long  that 
old  codger's  going  to  live  ;  he  must  be  as  old  as  Methu- 
eelah's  cat  by  this  time.  Atid  there,  I  vow,  if  there  ain't 
Miss  Jo,  streaking  along  as  tall  as  a  grenadier,  and  as  spry 
as  if  she  hadn't  been  up  all  night  at  that  rout  in  Golden 
Row.     What  a  frisky  old  girl  it  is!" 

"I  tell  you  what,  Bill  Blair,"  said  the  foreman,  Mr. 
Gilcase,  "if  you  don't  take  youi*self  down  out  of  that, 
and  get  to  work,  I'll  report  you  to  Mr.  Blake  as  toon  as 
he  comes  in !" 

"No,  yon  won't!"  said  Bill,  snapping  his  gum  be- 
tween his  teeth  like  a  pistol-shot.  "  There  ain't  nothing 
to  do.  I  swept  the  office,  and  sprinkled  this  lioor,  and  I 
want  a  rest  now,  I  should  think.  1  feel  as  if  I  should 
drop!" 

"  The  office  looks  as  if  it  had  been  swept,"  said  Mr. 
Gilcase,  contemptuously;  "there's  the  addresses  to  write 
on  those  wrapper ;  go  and  do  that !" 

"That's  time  enough,"  said  Bill;  "Blake  won't  be 
here  for  an  hour  or  two  yet ;  he's  puoozing,  I'll  bet  you, 
after  being  up  all  night.  Look  here,  Mr.  Gilcase,  did 
you  know  the  new  teacher  was  come  f 

"  No,"  said  the  foreman,  looking  somewhat  interested ; 
"has  she?" 

"Came  last  night,"  nodded  Bill ;  "our  Laury  heard  so 
last  night  at  the  party.  Her  name's  Miss  Hose.  Did 
you  know  they  had  an  officer  last  night  at  McGregor's  i" 

"  I  didn't  think  the  officers  visited  McGre^oi*'s  ?" 

"None  of  'em  ever  did  before;  but  one  ot  them  was 
there  last  night,  a  captain,  by  the  same  token;  and,  I  ex 


88  VADS    OFFICE. 

pcet,  old  McGregor's  as  proud  as  a  pig  with  two  tail?. 
As  for  Jane,  there'll  be  no  standing  her  now,  and  she  was 
stuck-iip  enough  before.  Oh,  here's  Clowiie,  and  about 
as  pleasant-looking  as  a  wild  cat  with  the  whooping- 
cough  !" 

A  heavy,  Inmbering  foot  was  ascending  the  steep  dark 
stairs,  and  the  door  jpened  presently  to  admit  a  young 
gentleman  in  a  pea-jacket  and  glazed  cap.  A  short  and 
thick-set  ^'oung  gentleman,  with  a  sulky  face,  who  was 
never  known  to  laugh,  and  whose  life  it  was  the  delight  of 
Master  Bill  Blair  to  torment  and  make  a  misery  of.  The 
young  gentleman  was  Mr.  Jacob  Clowrie,  eldest  son  and 
hope  of  Peter  Clowrie,  Esq.,  attorney-at-law. 

''  How  are  you,  Jake  ?"  began  Mr.  Blaii*,  in  a  friendly 
tone,  knocking  his  heels  about  on  the  stool.  "  You  look 
kind  of  sour  this  nfbrning.  Was  the  milk  at  breakfast 
curdled,  or  didn't  Cattv  get  up  to  make  you  any  breakfast 
at  all  r 

Mr.  Clowrie's  reply  to  this  was  a  growl,  as  he  hung  up 
his  cap. 

"  1  say,  Jake,  you  weren't  at  McGregor's  tea-splash  last 
night,  were  you  ?  1  know  the  old  man  and  Catty  were 
there.     Scaly  lot  not  to  ask  you  and  me !" 

Mr.  Clowne  growled  again,  and  sat  down  at  a  desk. 

"  I  say,  Jake,"  resumed  that  young  demon,  Bill,  grin- 
ning from  ear  to  ear,  "  how's  our  Cherrie,  eh  ? — seen  her 
lately?" 

"  What  would  you  give  to  know  ?"  snapped  Mr.  OJow- 
rie,  condescending  to  retort. 

"  But  I  do  know,  though,  without  giving  nothing !  and 
I  know  your  cake's  deugh,  my  boy  !  Lor,  I  think  I  see 
'em  now !"  cried  Bill,  gcirfg  off  in  a  shout  of  laughter  at 
some  lively  recollection. 

Mr.  Clowrie  glared  at  him  over  the  top  of  his  desk, 
with  savage  inquiry. 

"  Oh,  you're  cut  out,  old  fellow!  you're  dished,  you 
are !  Cherrie's  got  a  new  beau,  and  you're  left  in  the 
lurch  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  young  imp  ?"  inquired  Mr. 


VArS    OFFICE.  39 

Clowrie,  growing. very  red  in  the  face.     "I'll  go  over  and 
twist  jonr  neck  for  you,  if  you  don't  look  shai-p !" 

Mr.  Blair  winked. 

■*'  Don't  yon  think  you  see  yourself  doing  it,  Jakey  ?  1 
tell  you  it's  as  true  as  preachiiis; !  Cherrie's  got  a  new 
fellow,  and  the  chap's  name  is  Charley  Marsh." 

There  was  a  pause.  Bill  looked  triumphant,  Mr.  Clow- 
rie black  as  a  thunderbolt,  and  the  foreman  amused  in 
spite  of  himself.  Bill  crunched  his  gum  and  waited  for 
his  announcement  to  have  pi'oper  elfect,  and  then  resumed, 
in  an  explanatory  tone  : 

"  Yon  see,  Jake,  I  had  heard  Charley  was  after  her, 
but  I  didn't  believe  it  till  last  night,  when  I  see  them  with 
my  own  two  blessed  eyes.  My  governor  and  Laury  were 
off  to  McGregor's,  so  I  cut  over  to  Jim  Tod's,  to  see  a  lot 
of  terrier-pups  he's  got — me  and  Tom  Smith — and  he  prom- 
ised us  a  pup  apiece.  Jim's  folks  were  at  tlie  junketing, 
too ;  so  we  had  the  house  to  ourselves.  And  Jim,  he  stole 
in  the  pantry  through  the  window  and  hooked  a  lot  of  pies 
and  cakes,  and  raspberry  wine,  and  Tom  had  a  pack  of 
cards  in  his  trowsers  pocket.  And  we  went  up  to  Jim's 
room,  and,  crackey !  hadn't  we  a  time  !  There  was  no 
huiTy  neither ;  for  we  knew  the  old  folks  wouldn't  be 
home  till  all  houi-s,  so  we  staid  till  after  three  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  by  this  time  Jim  and  me  had  lost  three  shillings 
jn  pennies  each,  and  the  thi-ee  of  us  were  about  ready  to 
burst  with  all  we  had  eat  and  drank  !  It  was  foggy  and 
misty  coming  home,  and  me  and  Tom  cut  across  them 
fields  and  waste  lots  between  Tod's  and  Park  Lane,  when 
just  as  we  turned  into  Golden  How,  who  should  we  meet 
but  Charley  Marsh  and  Cherrie.  There  they  were,  commg 
along  as  large  as  life,  linking  together,  and  Clia|-ley's  heiid 
down,  listening  to  her,  till  their  noses  were  nearly  toucli- 
ing.    Me  and  Tom  laughed  till  we  were  tit  to  split !" 

Mr.  Blair  laughed  again  at  the  recollection,  but  Mr.  ■ 
Clowrie,  scowling  more  darkly  than  ever,  replied  not  save 
by  scornful  silence.    Bill  had  his  laugh  out,  and  recom- 
menced. 

"  So  you  see,  Jake,  it's  no  go !  You  can't  get  the  beau- 
tifulest  mug  that  ever  was  looked  at,  and  you  haven't  tlie 


40  VArS     OFFICE. 

Fiiadow  of  a  chance  against  such  a  fellow  as  Charley  Marsli! 
OLor!" 

With  the  last  ejaculation  of  alarm,  Bill  sprang  do^v^l 
f -oin  his  perch  in  consternation,  as  the  door  opened  and 
■T\f  r.  Yal  Elake  entered.  He  had  been  so  absorbed  dialling 
Mr.  Clowrie  that  he  had  not  heard  Val  coining  up-stairs, 
and  now  made  a  desperate  das!i  at  the  nearest  desk.  Val 
sti etched  out  his  long  arm  and  pinned  him. 

"  You  3'^oimg  vagabond  1  is  this  the  way  you  spend 
your  time  in  my  absence  ?  What's  that,  about  Charley 
Harsh  ?" 

''  Nothing,  sir,"  said  Bill,  grinning  a  malicious  grin 
over  at  Mr.  Clowrie.  "  I  was  only  telling  Jake  how  he 
■was  being  cut  out !" 

"  Cut  out !    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

'•  Why,  with  that  Cherrie  Nettleby !  Charley  Marsh's 
got  her  now !" 

*•'  What  I"  said  Val,  shortly ;  "  what  are  you  talking 
about,  you  little  rascal  V 

"  I  can't  help  it,  sir,"  said  Bill,  with  an  injured  look, 
"  if  I  am  a  rascal.  I  saw  him  seeing  her  home  this  morn- 
ing between  three  and  four  o'clock,  and  if  that  don't  look 
like  cutting  Jake  out,  I  don't  know  what  does !" 

"  And  what  were  you  doing  out  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
moining.  Master  Blair?" 

'•  I  wiis  over  to  Tod's  spending  the  evening,  me  and  a 
lot  more  fellows,  and  that  was  the  time  we  were  getting 
liome.  I  don't  see,"  said  Bill,  with  a  still  more  aggrieved 
air,  "  why  we  shouldn't  stop  out  a  while,  if  all  the  old 
codgers  in  the  town  set  us  the  example !" 

Val  released  him,  and  strode  on  to  an  inner  room. 

"  See  if  you  can  attend  to  your  business  for  one  morn- 
ing, sir,  and  give  your  tongue  a  holiday.  Mr,  Gilcase, 
WL*s  the  postman  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.    The  lettere  and  papers  are  on  your  table." 

Val  disappeared,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  ajid 
Master  Biuir  turned  a  somersault  of  delight  and  cut  a 
pigeon- wing  afterward, 

"  Get  to  work,  sir !"  shonted  Mr.  Gilcase,  "  or  I'll  make 
Mr.  Blake  turn  you  out  of  the  office  I" 


VAL'S    OFFICE.  41 

"Mr.  Blake  knows  better,"  retorted  the  incorrigible. 
*'  I  rather  thinJc  the  Sjwuter  would  be  nowhere  if  I  left; 
Do  yon  kuow,  Mr.  Gilcase,  I  think  Blake  has  some  notion 
of  taking  me  into  partnership  shortly  I  He  has  to  work 
like  a  horse  now." 

Val  had  to  work  hard — no  mistake  about  it,  for  Le 
was  sole  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Sunday  and  Weekly 
Speckport  Spouter.  lie  is  sitting  in  his  room  now — and 
a  dnsty,  grimy,  littered,  disordered  room  it  is — before  a 
table  heaped  with  papers,  letters,  boolvs,  and  manuscript 
of  all  kinds,  busily  tearing  the  envelopes  off  sundry  over- 
grown lettei*s,  and  disgorging  their  contents. 

"  AVhat's  this  'i  a  private  note  from  Miss  Incognita. 
*  Would  I  be  so  kind  as  to  speak  to  the  printers;  they 
made  such  frightful  mistakes  in  her  last  sketch,  iilled  her 
heroine's  eyes  with  tare,  instead  of  tcai*s,  and  in  the  battle- 
scene  defeated  Cromwell  and  his  soldiers  with  wildest 
laughter,  instead  of  slaughter  !'    Humph. 

"  It's  her  own  fault ;  why  don't  she  write  decently  2 
Very  well.  Miss  Laura,  I'll  stick  you  in ;  you  think  I  don't 
know  you,  I  suppose.    Come  in." 

Val  looked  up  from  his  literary  labors  to  answer  a  tap 
at  the  door.     Mr.  Gilcase  put  in  his  head. 

"  There's  a  gentleman  here  wants  to  see  you,  sir.  Cap- 
tain Cavendish. 

Val  got  up  and  went  out.  Captain  Cavendish,  in  a 
loose  overcoat,  and  smoking  a  cigar,  was  lounging  a^^ainst 
a  desk,  and  being  stared  at  by  Messrs.  Clowrie  and  Blair, 
took  out  his  cigar  and  extended  his  hand  languidly  to  Val. 

"  Good  morning !  Are  you  very  busy  'i  Am  I  an  in- 
truder ?     If  so,  I'll  go  away  again." 

"I'm  no  busier  than  common,"  said  Vah  Come  in, 
this  is  my  sanctum,  and  here's  the  editorial  chair;  sit 
do^vn." 

"  Is  it  any  harm  to  smoke  ?"  inquired  the  Captain, 
looking  rather  doubtful. 

"  iSot  the  least.  I'll  blow  a  cloud  myself.  How  did 
you  find  your  way  here  through  the  clouds  of  fog  ?" 

"  Not  very  easily.  Does  the  sun  ever  shine  at  aJl  in 
Speckpoi-t  ?" 


43  VAD8     OFFICE. 

"  Occasionally — when  it  camiot  help  itself.  But  when 
did  jou  take  to  early  rising,  pray  ?  You  U8e<^  to  be  loung- 
ing over  your  breakfast  about  this  hour  when  I  knew  you 
in  Halifax." 

"  Yes,  I  know — I'm  a  reformed  character.  Apropos, 
early  rising  seems  to  be  the  style  here.  I  met  two  ladies 
of  my  acquaintance  figuring  through  the  screets  ever  so 
long  ago." 

"Wlio  were  they?" 

"  Your  sister  was  one  ;  Miss  Marsh,  the  other." 

"Katty,  eh?  Oh,  she  always  was  an  early  bird. 
Were  you  speaking  to  her  ?" 

"  I  had  tlie  pleasure  of  escorting  her  to  her  mother's. 
By  the  way,  she  does  not  live  with  her  mother,  does  she?" 

"  No ;  siie  lives  with  old  Lady  Leroy,  up  at  Redmou." 

"Where  is  Redmon?" 

"  About  a  mile  from  Speckpoi't.  Natty  walks  it  two 
or  three  times  a  day,  and  thinks  it's  only  a  hen's  jump. 
Kedmon's  a  fine  place." 

"Indeed." 

"Not  the  house  exactly — ^it's  a  great  barn — but  the 
property.     It's  worth  eight  thousand  pounds." 

"So  much?"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  looking  inter- 
ested.    "  And  who  is  Lady  Leroy  ?" 

"  The  wife — the  widow  of  a  dead  Jew.  Dou't  stare, 
she  only  gets  the  title  as  a  nickname,  for  she's  the  greatest 
old  oddity  the  sun  ever  shone  on.  She's  a  cousin  of  Natty's 
mother,  and  Natty  is  to  be  he;-  heiress." 

Captain  Cavendish's  eyes  lightened  vividly. 

"  Her  heiress !     Is  she  very  rich,  tlien?"  , 

"  Immensely !  Worth  thirty  thousand  pounds  or  more, 
and  the  stuigiest  old  skinflint  that  ever  breathed.  Natty 
lias  been  with  her  over  a  year  now,  as  a  sort  of  companion, 
and  a  line  time  she  has  with  the  old  toad,  I  know." 

"  And  there  is  no  doubt  Miss  Mai-sh  is  to  be  her  heir- 
ess?" 

"  None  at  all — the  will  is  made  and  in  the  hands  of 
Darcy,  her  lawyer.  She  has  no  children,  and  no  relatives 
that  ever  I  heard  of  nearer  than  Miss3Iarsh.  She  was  old 
Leroj's  servant  whe.i  he  married  her — it  happened  in  New 


VArS     OFFICE.  43 

York,  Avliere  he  made  his  money.  This  place,  Redmon, 
was  to  bo  sold  for  debt ;  Loroy  bid  it  in  dirt  ciieap,  and 
rented  it,  employing  Dai-py  as  his  agent  to  collect  rents, 
for  thsre  is  quite  a  village  attached  to  it.  After  the  old 
fellow's  death,  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  his  venerable  relict 
came  liere^  took  up  her  abode  at  Kedmon,  with  as  great  an 
oddity  as  herself  for  a  servant.  She  took  a  great  farcy  to 
pretty  Natty  after  awhile,  and  got  her  to  go  up  there  and 
reside  as  companion." 

"  And  those  Marshes — wliat  are  they?  like  the  rest  of 
Speckport — begging  j'our  pardon  ! — nobody  ?" 

"l-'amil}'^,  you  mean?  That  question  is  so  like  an 
Englishman.  The  father  was  a  gentleman.  His  profession 
was  that  of  engineer,  and  his  family,  I  have  heard,  was 
something  extra  in  England  ;  but  he  made  a  low  marriage 
ov'er  4iere,  and  they  w^ould  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
liim.  Mrs.  Marsh  was  pretty,  and  as  insipid  as  a  mug  of 
milk  and  water,  caring  for  nothing  in  the  world  wide  but 
sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  reading  novels.  He  married  her, 
thongli ;  and  they  lived  quite  in  style  until  Charley  was 
fourteen  and  Natty  twelve  yeare  old.  Then  Mr.  Mai-sh 
had  a  stroke  of  paralysis  which  left  him  altogether  incapa- 
ble of  attending  to  his  business,  of  doing  anything,  in  fact, 
bnt  teaching.  He  started  a  school,  and  got  a  sahiry  for 
playing  the  organ  in  the  cathedral,  but  he  only  lived  two 
years  after.  Before  lie  died  they  had  to  give  up  their  line 
liouse,  dismiss  their  servants,  auction  their  furniture,  and 
j'cnt  the  cottage  they  live  in  now.  Miss  Natty,  sir,  kept 
the  school,  gave  music-lessons  after  hours,  took  the  organ 
Sundays,  and  supported  the  family  for  the  next  tliree 
years  ;  in  point  of  fact,  does  to  (his  day," 

"  How  is  that  V  'said  Captain  Cavendish,  "  Mrs.  Leroy 
pays  her  a  salary  as  companion,  I  suppose?" 

"  She  does ;  but  that's  only  a  pittance,  wouldn't  pay 
her  mother's  bills  in  the  circulating  library.  Natty  refused 
to  go  to  Redmon  unless  under  certahi  conditions.  She 
would  retain  the  school,  the  organ,  and  her  music-pnpils 
as  usual,  only  she  would  engage  another  teacher  for  the 
school,  coming  there  one  hour  a  day  to  superintend.  That 
would  take  about  four  hours  a  day,  the  rest  was  at  the 


44  VArS    OFFICE. 

Bervice  of  Lady  Leroy.  Her  ladyship  gmrabledj  but  had 
to  consent ;  so  Natty  went  to  live  up  at  Redmou,  and  be- 
tween all  has  her  hands  full."       $ 

"  IShe  is  indeed  a  brave  girl !  "What  are  her  duties  at 
the  old  lady's  V 

"  No  trifle !  She  reads  to  her,  retails  all  the  news  of 
the  town,  writes  her  letters,  keeps  her  accounts,  receives 
the  rents,  makes  out  the  receipts,  ovei-sees  the  houseliold — 
does  a  thousand  things  besides.  If  she  had  as  many  hands 
as  wJiat's  his  name,  the  fellow  in  the  mythology, — Briareus, 
wasn't  it  ? — the  old  vixen  would  keep  them  all  occupied. 
By  the  way,  did  yon  see  Charley  this  morning  when  you 
were  in  il" 

"  I  wasn't  in,  I  left  Miss  Natty  at  the  door.  I  say,  Yal, 
you  didn't  tell  me  last  night  who  that  pretty  girl  was  I  saw 
him  with  in  the  window.  She  was  not  a  guest,  though  I'll 
take  my  oatli  there  wasn't  a  3'oung  lady  present  half  so 
pretty,  save  the  belle  of  Speckport  herself.  Who  was  she  ?" 

"  Cherrie,  otherwise  Miss  Charlotte  Nettleby.  A  httle 
flirting  piece  of  conceit.  She  has  had  the  young  men 
of  Speckport  tagging  after  her.  Rumor  set  Charley 
down  lately  as  one  of  her  killed  or  wounded ;  but  Speck- 
port is  always  gossiping,  and  I  paid  no  attention  to  it. 
It  seems  it's  true  though,  for  that  young  scamj)  Blair  in 
the  next  room  saw  liim  escorting  her  home  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  What  was  she  doing  at  the  house  if  not  invited !"    \ 

"How  should  I  know?  Cherrie  is  everywhere — she 
knows  the  servants,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  is  that  it  i    Then  she  is  nobody." 

*'I  wish  she  heard  you!  If  ever  any  one  thought 
themselves  somebody  it's  the  same  ISIiss,  Cherrie.  She 
aspires  to  be  a  lady — bless  your  heart ! — and  that  foohsh 
boj-  is  to  be  entrapped  into  marrying  her." 

Val  stopped  to  knock  the  ashes  off  his  cigar. 

•'  Well ;  and  what  tlien  f  asked  the  captain. 

"Why,  Natty  will  go  frantic,  that  is  all.  She  tliinka 
the  Princess  Royal  not  half  good  enough  for  Charley." 

"  Is  Miss  Cheri'ie's  position  in  life  so  low,  then  '<" 

"  It's  not  that.     Her  father  is  a  gardener,  a  poor  man, 


VArS    OFFICE.  46 

but  lionest  and  respectable  enougli.  It's  CJierrie  herself ; 
she's  a  shallow,  vain,  sillj  little  bea;itj,  as  ever  made  fools 
of  men,  and  her  vanity,  and  her  idleness,  and  her  dress, 
and  her  flirtations  are  the  scandal  of  the  town.  Not  tliat 
anything  woise  can  be  said  of  little  Cherrie,  mind ;  but 
ehe  is  not  the  girl  for  Charley  Marsh  to  marry." 

"Charley  is  a  geutleman;  perhaps  he  isn't  going  to 
marry  her,"  suggested  Captain  Cavendish,  with  a  light 
laugh,  that  told  more  of  his  character  than  folios  could 
have  done. 

"Being  a  gentleman,"  said  Val,  with  emphasis,  "he 
means  to  marry  her  if  he  means  anything  at  all." 

And  the  young  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Chacun  d  son  gout.  I  must  be  going,  I  believe.  Here 
1  have  been  trespassing  on  your  time  these  two  hours." 

"The  day's  young  yet,"  said  Val;  "have  you  any  en- 
gagement for  this  evening 'f 

"  I  believe  not,  except  a  dinner  at  the  mess-room,  which 
can  be  shirked." 

"  Then  come  up  to  Redmon.  If  you  are  a  student  of 
character,  Mrs.  Leroy  will  amply  repay  the  trouble." 

"I'm  there  !  but  not,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  laugh- 
ing, "  to  see  Mrs.  Leroy." 

"  I  understand.     Well,  good  morning." 

"Until  then,  au  rexoir^ 

Mr.  Bill  Blair,  perched  on  his  high  stool,  his  elbowa 
spread  out  on  the  desk,  stared  at  him  as  he  went  out. 

"  Cracky,  what  a  rum  swell  them  officer  chaj«  are  ?  i 
say,  Clowrie,  wouldn't  Cherrie  like  that  cov^e  for  a  beau  '{ 
He  would  be  safe  to  win  if  he  tried  it  on,  and  Chai'ley 
Marsh  would  be  where  you  are  now — nowhere." 

And  little  did  Mr.  William  Blair  or  his  bearers  think 
he  was  uttering  a  prophecy. 


46     KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE. 
CHAPTER  Y. 

KILLING  TWO    BIRDS  WITH  ONE  STONE. 

APTAIN  CAYENDISH,  looking  very  hand- 
some and  distinguished  in  the  admiring  eyes 
of  Speckport,  lounged  down  Queen  Street, 
and  down  half  a  dozen  other  streets,  toward 
the  sea-shore.  The  tide  was  ebbing  as  he 
descended  to  the  beach,  and  the  long,  Inzy  swell  breaking 
on  the  strand  was  singing  the  old  everlasting  song  it  has 
sung  through  all  time,  its  mysterious  music  was  lost  on 
Captain  Cavendish ;  his  thoughts  were  hundreds  of  miles 
away.  Not  very  pleasant  thouglits,  either,  judging  by 
Jiis  contracted  brow  and  compressed  lips,  as  he  leaned 
against  a  tall  rock,  his  eyes  looking  out  to  sea.  He  started 
up  after  awhile,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  Pshaw !"  he  said ;  "  what's  the  use  of  thinkiug  of  it 
now  ?  it's  all  past  and  gone.  It  is  Fate,  I  suppose  ;  and 
if  Fate  has  ordained  I  must  marry  a  rich  wife  or  none, 
where  is  the  good  of  my  puny  struggles  ?  But  poor  little 
Winnie !  I  have  been  the  greatest  villain  that  ever  was 
known  to  you." 

He  walked  along  the  beach,  sendin<^  pebbles  skimming 
over  the  waves  as  he  went.  Two  fishermen  in  oilcloth 
trowsers,  very  scaly  and  rattling,  were  di-awing  up  their 
boat,  laden  to  the  water's  edge  with  gaspereaux,  all  alive 
and  kicking.  Captain  Cavendish  stopped  and  looked  at 
them. 

"  Your  freight  looks  lively,  my  men.  You  have  got 
a  line  boatload  there." 

The  two  young  men  looked  at  him.  They  were  tall, 
strapping,  sunburnt,  black-eyed,  good-looking  fellows  both, 
and  the  one  hauling  up  the  boat  answered ;  the  other, 
pulling  the  fish  out  of  the  nets,  went  on  with  his  work  in 
silence. 

"  Yes,  sir,   we  had  a  good  haul   last  night.      The 


KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE.      47 

freshet's  been  stroFx^ic  this  spring,  and  has  made  the  fishing 
good." 

"  Were  you  out  all  nigiit  ?" 

"Yes;  wo  have  to  go  v»dicn  the  tide  suits." 

"You  hud  a  foggy  night  for  it,  theu.  Can  you  tell 
me  which  is  the  road  to  Redmon  f 

The  youLg  fisherman  turned  and  pointed  to  a  path 
going  up  the  hillside  from  the  r-hore. 

"Do  you  see  that  path?  Well,  follow  it ;  cut  across 
the  field,  and  let  down  the  bars  t'other  side.  There's  a 
road  there;  keep  straight  on  and  it  will  fetch  you  to  Ited- 
mon.  You  can't  miss  the  house  when  you  get  to  it ;  it's 
a  big  brick  building  on  a  sort  of  hill,  with  lots  of  trees 
around  it." 

"  Thank  you.     I'll  find  it,  I  think." 

He  sauntered  lazily  uj)  the  hillside-path,  cut  across  the 
fields,  and  let  down  the  bars  as  he  had  been  directed, 
putting  them  conscientiously  up  again. 

The  road  was  a  very  quiet  one ;  green  meadows  on 
either  hand,  and  clumps  of  cedar  and  spruce  wood  sparsely 
dotting  it  here  and  there.  The  breeze  swept  up  cool  and 
fresh  from  the  sea ;  the  town  with  its  bustle  and  noise 
was  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

lie  was  Avalking  so  slowly  that  it  was  nearly  half  an 
hour  before  liedmon  came  in  sight — a  large  weather- 
beaten  brick  liouse  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  witli  bleak 
corners  and  reedy  marshes,  and  dark  trees  all  around  it, 
the  whole  inclosed  by  a  high  wooden  fence.  The  place 
took  its  name  from  these  marshes  or  moors  about  it,  sown 
in  some  time  with  crimson  cranberries  and  pigeonberries, 
like  fields  of  red  stars.  But  Captain  Cavendish  only 
glanced  once  at  Iledinon ;  for  the  instant  it  had  come  in 
sight  something  oleo  had  come  in  sight,  too,  a  thousand 
times  better  worth  looking  at.  Just  outside  the  extremity 
of  the  fence  nearest  him  there  stood  a  cottage — a  little 
whitewashed  alfair,  standing  out  in  dazzling  contrast  to 
the  black  cedar  woods  beside  it,  hop-vines  clustering  round 
its  door  and  windows,  and  a  tall  gate  at  one  side  opening 
into  a  well-cultivated  vegetable  garden. 

Swinging  back  and  forward  on  tliis  gate  was  a  young 


48     KILLINQ     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE. 

girl,  whom  Oaptaiu  Cavcndisli  recognized  in  a  moment. 
It  Wiis  a  face  that  few  young  men  forgot  easily,  for  its 
owner  was  a  beauty  born ;  the  figure  was  petite  and 
plump,  dehghtfully  rounded  and  ripe  indeed,  with  no 
nasty  sharp  curves  or  harsh  angles  ;  the  complexion  dark 
and  clear,  the  forehead  low,  with  black,  arching  brows ; 
the  eyes  like  black  beads ;  the  cheeks  like  June  roses ;  the 
lips  as  red,  and  ripe,  and  sweet  as  summer  strawberries, 
the  teeth  they  parted  to  disclose,  litoi-ally  like  pearls,  and 
they  parted  very  often,  indeed,  to  disclose  them.  The 
hair  was  black  as  hair  can  be,  and  all  clustering  in  little 
short,  shining  rings  and  kinks  about  the  forehead  and  neck. 
Captain  Cavendish  had  seen  that  face  for  the  first  time 
last  night,  in  the  window  with  Charley  Marsh,  but  he 
was  a  sufiiciently  good  judge  of  physiognomy  to  knov/  it 
was  not  necessary  to  be  very  ceremonious  with  Miss 
Cherrie  Nettleby,  He  therefore  advanced  at  once,  with 
a  neat  little  fiction  at  the  top  of  his  tongae. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  politely,  "but  I  am 
very  thirsty.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  give  me  a 
drink?" 

Miss  Cherrie,  though  but  nineteen  in  yeare,  was  forty 
at  least  in  penetration  where  handsome  men  were  con- 
cerned, and  saw  through  the  ruse  at  once.  She  sprang 
down  from  the  gate  and  held  it  open,  with  the  prettiest 
affectation  of  timidity  in  the  world. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Will  you  please  to  walk  in." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  captain,  languidly,  "  I  believe 
I  will.     My  walk  luis  completely  used  me  up." 

Miss  Cherrie  led  the  way  into  tlie  cottage.  The  front 
door  opened  directly  into  the  parlor  of  tiie  dvvcUing,  a 
neat  little  room,  the  iioor  covered  with  mats;  a  table,  with 
books  and  knicknacks  in  the  center ;  a  lounge  and  a  rock- 
ing-chair, and  some  common  colored  prints  on  the  walls.  It 
had  an  occupant  as  they  came  in,  a  sallow,  dark-eyed  girl 
of  sixteen,  wliose  hands  fairly  fiew  as  she  sat  at  tiie  win- 
dow, netting  on  a  fisherman's  net,  already  some  twenty 
fathoms  long, 

"  Ann,"  said  Cherrie,  placing  a  chair  for  their  distin- 
guibhod  visitor,  "go  and  fetch  the  gentleman  a  drink." 


KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE.      49 

The  girl  turned  lier  sallow  but  somewhat  sullen  face, 
without  rising. 

"  There  ain't  no  water  in,"  she  said,  cur^y. 

•••  Go  for  some  now,"  said  Cherrie.  "  I'll  knit  till  you 
come  back." 

"  No,  no !"  hastily  interposed  Captain  Cavendish.  "  I 
beg  you  will  give  yourself  no  such  trouble.  I  am  not  so 
thirsty  as  I  thought  1  was." 

"  Oh,  we'll  want  the  water  anyhow  to  get  the  boys' 
dinner,"  said  Cherrie,  throwing  off  her  scarlet  shawl. 
"  Go,  Ann,  and  make  haste." 

Ann  got  up  crossly,  and  strolled  out  of  the  room  at  a 
snail's  pace,  and  Miss  Cherrie  took  her  place,  and  went  to 
work  industriously. 

"Is  that  your  sister?"  he  asked,  watching  Cherrie's 
hand  flying  as  swiftly  in  and  out  as  x\nn's  had  done. 

"  Yes,  that's  our  Ann,"  replied  the  young  lady,  as  if 
every  one  should  know  Ann,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  And  do  you  and  Ann  live  liere  alone  together  ?" 

Cherrie  giggled  at  the  idea. 

"  Oh  dear,  no.     There's  father  and  the  boys." 

"  Tlie  boys,  and  are  they " 

"  My  brothers,"  said  Cherrie.  "  Two  of  'em,  Rob  and 
Eddie.  They  fish,  you  know,  and  Ann,  she  knits  the 
nets." 

"  Are  those  you  are  now  making  for  them  ?" 

"Yes,  these  are  shad-nets.  I  hate  to  knit,  but  the 
boys  pay  Ann  for  doing  it,  and  she  does  them  aU.  I 
gaess  you'll  be  pretty  thii-sty,"  said  Cherrie,  laughing  as 
easily  as  if  she  had  known  him  for  the  past  ten  years, 
"  before  Ann  gets  back  with  the  water.  She's  horrid 
slow." 

"  Never  mind.  The  longer  she  is  away,  the  better  I 
shall  like  it.  Miss  Cherrie." 

Miss  Cherrie  dropped  her  needle  and  mesh-block,  and 
opened  her  black  eyes. 

"  Why,  how  did  you  find  out  my  name  ?  You  don't 
know  me,  do  you  ?" 

"  A  little.    I  trust  we  shall  be  very  well  acquainted 
before  long." 
8 


50      KILLnfG     TWO    BIRDS     WITH     ONE    STONE. 

Cherrie  smiled  graciously. 

"  Everybody  knows  me,  I  think.  How  did  you  fiitd 
out  who  I  was  V^ 

"  I  saw  you  last  night." 

"  JS^o  !  did  you,  though  ?     What  time  ?  where  was  I V 

"  Sitting  in  a  -window,  breaking  a  young  gentleman's 
heart." 

Cherrie  giggled  a^in. 

"  I'm  6m"e  I  wasir  t  doing  any  such  thing.  That  was 
only  Charley  Marsh." 

"  Only  Charley  Marsh.  Had  you  and  he  a  pleasant 
walk  home  this  morning  ?" 

"Now,  I  never.  How  did  you  know  he  saw  me 
home  ?" 

"  A  little  bird  told  me.     I  only  wish  it  had  been  my 
.  good  fortune." 

"  Oh,  what  a  story !"  cried  Cherrie,  her  wicked  black 
eyes  dancing  in  her  head  ;  "  I  wonder  you  ain't  ashamed ! 
i)idn't  I  hear  you  wanting  to  ride  home  ^vith  Miss  Natty. 
I  was  peeking  out  through  the  dining-room  door,  and  I 
heard  you  as  plain  as  could  be." 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  b«  polite,  you  know.  Not  having 
the  honor  of  your  acquaintance,  Cherrie,  I  knew  there 
was  no  hope  of  escorting  you ;  so  I  made  the  offer  to 
Miss  Marsh  in  sheer  despair.  Now,  Chen-ie,  I  don't  want 
you  to  get  too  fond  of  that  brother  of  hers." 

Cherrie  tittered  once  more. 

"  Now,  how  can  you !  I'm  sure  1  don't  care  nothing 
about  him  ;  but  I  can't  help  his  talking  to  me,  and  seeing 
me  home,  can  I  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wouldn't  talk  too  much  to  him,  if 
I  were  you  ;  and  as  for  seeing  you  home,  I'd  ratlier  do  it  I 
^myself.     There  is  no  telling  what  nonsense  he  may  get 
Uilkiui^ !     Does  he  come  here  often  ?" 

"  i*retty  often ;  but  all  the  young  fellow^s  come ! 
Sandy  McGregor,  Jake  Clowrie,  Mr.  Blake,  Charley 
Mai-sh,  and  tlie  whole  lot  of  'em  !" 

"  What  time  do  they  come  ?" 

•■'  Evenings,  mostly.    Then,  there's  a  whole  lot  of  Bob 


KILLING     TWO    BIRD'j'   WITH    OIVE    STONE.      51 

and  Eddie's  friends  come,  too,  and  the  house  is  full  most 
every  night !" 

"  And  what  do  you  all  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  ever  so  many  things  !  Play  cards,  sing  songs, 
and  carry  on,  and  dance,  sometimes." 

"  May  I  come,  too,  Cherrie  ?" 

"  You  may,  if  you  like,"  said  Cherrie,  with  coquettish 
indifference.  "  But  the  young  ladies  in  Speckport  won't 
like  that !" 

"  What  do  I  care  for  the  young  ladies  in  Speckport ! 
Oh,  here's  the  water !" 

Ann  came  in  with  a  glass,  and  the  captain  drank  it 
without  being  the  least  thirsty. 

"Bob  and  Eddie's  coming  up  the  road,"  said  Ann 
to  her  sister ;  ' '  you  knit  while  I  peel  the  potatoes  for 
dinner." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  go,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  ris- 
ing, having  no  desire  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Messrs.  i^ettleby.  "I  have  been  here  nearly  half  an 
hour." 

"  That  ain't  long,  I'm  sure,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  what's 
your  hurry  ?" 

"I  have  a  call  to  make.  May  I  come  again.  Miss 
Cherrie  ?" 

"  Oh,  of  course !"  said  Miss  Cherrie,  with  perfect 
coolness ;  "  we  always  like  to  see  our  friends.  Are  you 
going  to  Redmon  ?" 

Captain  Cavendish  nodded,  and  took  his  hat.  Pretty 
Cherrie  got  up  to  escort  him  to  the  gate. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Cherrie,"  he  said,  making  her  a 
flourishing  bow.  "  I  will  have  the  pleasure  of  calling  on 
you  to-morrow." 

Cherrie  smiled  most  gracious  consent. 

As  he  turned  out  of  the  gate  he  enconntered  the  two 
young  fishermen  who  had  directed  him  to  Kedmon.  They 
were  Cherrie's  brothers,  then ;  and,  laughing  inwardly  at 
the  memory  of  the  late  interview  with  that  young  lady, 
he  entered  the  grounds  of  Redmon. 

"  She's  a  deuced  pretty  girl !"  he  said,  slapping  his 
boot  with  a  rattan  he  carried ;  "  and,  faith,  she's  free  and 


63     KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE. 

easyl  Ko  nonsensical  pradery  about  Miss  Cherrie.  I 
only  liope  I  may  get  on  as  well  with  the  golden-haired 
heiress  as  I  seem  to  have  done  with  the  black-eyed 
grisette !" 

He  opened  the  wooden  gate,  and  sauntered  along  a 
bleak  avenue,  the  grounds  on  either  hand  overrun  witli 
rank  weeds,  and  spruce,  and  tamarack,  and  fir  trees,  casting 
somber  gloom  around. 

The  nouse,  a  great  red  barn,  as  Yal  had  said,  looked 
like  a  black,  grimy  jail ;  the  shutters  were  closed  on  every 
window,  the  hall-door  seemed  hermetically  sealed,  and 
swallows  flew  about  it,  and  built  their  nests  in  security  on 
the  eaves  and  down  the  chimneys.     There  was  a  great, 

frim  iron  knocker  on  the  door,  and   th^   young  man's 
nock  reverberated   with  a  hollow    and    ghostly  echo 
through  the  weird  house. 

"  What  a  place  for  such  a  girl  to  live  in !"  he  thought, 
looking  up  at  it.  "  Her  desire  for  wealth  must  be  strong 
to  tempt  her  to  bury  herself  alive  in  such  an  old  tomb. 
The  riches  of  the  Rothschilds  would  not  induce  me." 

A  rusty  key  grated  in  a  lock,  the  door  swung  open 
with  a  creaking  sound,  and  the  bright  face  of  Nathalie 
Marsh  looked  out. 

She  smiled  when  she  saw  who  it  was,  and  frankly  held 
out  her  hand. 

"  You  have  lost  no  time,  Monsieur.  "Walk  in,  and 
please  to  excuse  me  a  few  moments.  I  must  go  back  to 
Mi-s.  Leroy." 

They  were  in  a  long  and  dismal  hall,  flanked  witli 
doors,  and  with  a  great,  wide,  old-fashioned  staircase 
sweeping  up  and  losing  itself  somehow  in  the  upper 
gloom.  Natty  opened  one  of  the  doors,  ushered  him  into 
the  reception  parlor  of  the  establishment,  and  then  flew 
swiftly  up  the  stairs  and  was  gone. 

Captain  Cavendish  looked  about  him,  that  is,  as  well 
as  he  could  for  the  gloom.  The  parlor  of  Redmon  was 
furnished  after  the  style  of  the  cabin  of  a  certain  "  fine 
Duld  Irish  g*.ntleman,"  immortaliijed  in  song,  "  with  noth- 
ing at  all  for  show."  No  cai-pet  on  the  dreary  Sahara  of 
floor ;  no  curtains  on  the  gloomy  windows ;  no  pictures 


KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE.      58 

on  the  dead,  blank  waste  of  whitewaslied  walls ;  a  few 
chairs,  a  black,  old  mahogany  table,  a  dreary  horsehair 
sofa,  about  as  &of t  as  if  cushioned  with  bricks ;  and  that 
was  all.  The  silence  of  the  place  was  something  blood- 
chilling  ;  not  the  squeak  of  a  mouse  relieved  its  deathlike 
quiet. 

Five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  minutes  passed,  and  the  cap- 
tain, getting  desperate,  was  seriously  thinking  of  making 
his  escape,  when  a  light  step  came  tripping  down  the 
stairs,  and  !N^atty,  all  breathless  and  laughing,  came  breezily 
in. 

"  Are  you  tired  to  death  waiting?"  she  laughed  gayly. 
"  Mrs.  Leroy  is  dreadfully  tiresome  over  her  toilet,  and  I 
am  femme  de  chambre,  if  you  please !  It  is  over  now, 
and  she  desires  me  to  escort  you  to  her  presence,  and 
be  introduced.  I  hope  you  may  make  a  favorable  im- 
pression !" 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  said  Captain  Cavendish, 
with  an  appalled  face.  "  How  am  I  to  insinuate  myself 
into  her  good  graces?  Where  is  the  key  to  her 
heart?" 

"  The  key  was  lost  yeai-s  ago,  and  her  heart  is  now 
closed.  Don't  contradict  her,  whatever  you  do.  Hush ! 
here  we  are  !" 

They  had  ascended  to  a  hall  like  the  one  below ; 
flanked,  like  it,  by  doors.  Natty,  with  a  glance  of  wicked 
delight  at  his  dolorous  face,  opened  the  first  door  to  the 
right,  and  ushered  him  at  once  into  the  presence  of  the 
awfnl  Lady  Leroy. 

Something — it  certainly  looked  more  like  an  Egyptian 
mummy  than  anything  else — swathed  in  shawls  and 
swaddling-clothes,  was  stuck  up  in  a  vast  Sleepy  Hollow 
open  arm-chair,  and  had  its  face  turned  to  the  door.  That 
face,  and  a  very  yellow,  and  seared,  and  wrinkled,  and  un- 
lovely face  it  was,  buried  in  the  fiapping  obscurity  of  a 
deeply-frilled  white  cap,  was  lit  by  a  pair  of  Httle,  twink- 
ling eyes,  bright  and  keen  as  two  stilettos. 

"  Mrs.  Leroy,"  said  i^atty,  her  tone  demore,  but  her 
mischievous  eyes  dancing  under  their  lashes,  "  this  is  Cap- 
tain Cavendish." 


64     KILLUra    TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Captain  Cavendish  ?"  said  Mrs.  Leroj, 
^  in  a  shrill,  squeaking  voice,  like  a  penny  wliistle  out  of 
tune;  "sit  down^^o!  Natty,  can't  you  give  the  young 
man  a  cheer  ?" 

Natty  did  not  cheer,  but  she  placed  a  chair  for  him, 
^  "whispering,  as  she  did  so,  "  Speak  loud,  or  she  won't  hear 
you." 

"  What's  the  weather  like  out  o'  doors  ?"  inquired  the 
old  lady,  scanning  him  from  head  to  foot  with  lier  little 
pierciiig  eyes  ;  "  be  the  sun  a-shining,  hey  ?" 

"No,  Madam,''  said  Captain  Cavendish,  in  a  loud  key, 
"  it  is  foggy." 

She  had  paid  no  attention  to  his  reply ;  she  had  been 
staring  at  him  all  the  time,  until  even  he,  cool  as  any  man 
of  the  world  could  be,  got  a  trifle  disconcerted.  Natty, 
sitting  demurely  near,  was  enjoying  it  all  with  silent  but 
intense  delight. 

"  So  you're  the  young  English  captain  Natty  was  tell- 
ing me  about.  You're  not  so  handsome  as  she  Siiid  you 
were ;  leastways,  you  ain't  to  my  taste !" 

It  was  Nattj-'s  turn  now  to  look  disconcerted,  which 
she  did  with  a  vengeance,  as  the  dark,  laughing  eyes  of 
the  young  officer  turned  upon  her. 

"  Miss  Marsh  does  me  too  much  honor  to  mention  me 
at  all,"  he  said,  speaking  more  at  the  young  lady  than  to 
the  old  one. 

"Hey?"  inquired  Lady  Leroy,  shrilly.  "What's 
that  ?     What  did  you  say  ?" 

"  I  was  saying  how  remarkably  well  you  were  looking, 
ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  raising  his  voice,  "  and  that  this 
Redmon  is  a  very  line  old  place." 

"  It's  not !"  screamed  Lady  Leroy,  viciously ;  "  it's  the 
hatefulest,  daf test,  uucomfortablest  hole  ever  anybody  set 
foot  in !     Natty !" 

"  Yes,  ma'am !"  said  Natty.     "  What  is  it?" 

"  Is  old  Nettleby  planting  them  potatoes  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  he  is." 

"  He'll  plant  Carters  where  he  ought  to  plant  Early 
Blues !  I  know  he  will  1"  cried  the  old  lady  in  an  ecstasy 
of  alarm ;  "  run  out  as  fast  as  you  can,  Natty,  and  tell 


KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE.      55 

hira  not  to  plant  any  Carters  in  the  three-cornered  field. 
Kun,  run,  run !" 

Natty  Ivnew  Lady  Leroy  a  great  deal  too  well  to  ex- 
postulate. "  I  will  be  back  directly,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  the  laughing  light  in  her  eyes  still,  as  she  passed 
hei-  visitor ;  "d:)  not  get  into  trouble  if  you  can  help  it,  in 
my  absence." 

She  was  gone,  and  Lady  Leroy,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  opposite  wall,  seemed  to  have  gone  oS.  into  a  fit  of 
musing.  Captain  Cavendish  tried  to  look  about  him, 
which  he  had  not  ventured  to  do  before,  under  those 
basilisk  eyes.  It  was  a  large  square  room,  like  all  the  rest 
in  the  house,  and  stiliingly  close  and  wann.  No  wonder, 
for  a  small  cooking-stove  was  .burning  away,  and  every 
windovr  was  closed  and  shuttered.  A  bed  stood  in  one 
corner,  an  old-fashioned  clock  ticked  in  a  loud  hoarse 
voice  on  the  mantel-piece,  a  small  round  table  stood  at  the 
old  lady's  elbow,  and  the  floor  was  covered  with  a  carpet 
that  had  been  Brussels  once,  but  which  was  dirty,  and 
colorless,  and  ragged  now.  There  was  an  open  cupboai-d 
with  dishes,  and  a  sort  of  pantry  with  a  half  glass  door, 
through  which  he  could  see  boxes  and  barrels,  hams  and 
dried  beef,  and  other  commissary  stores.  The  chair 
matched  the  flinty  sofa  down  staii-s,  and  the  only  thing  to 
attract  attention  in  the  room  was  a  green  cabinet  of  cov- 
ered wood  that  stood  beside  the  bed.  While  he  was  look- 
ing at  it,  the  old-fashioned  clock  began  striking  twelve  in 
a  gruff  and  surly  way,  as  if  it  did  it  against  its  better 
judgment.  The  sound  woke  the  old  lady  up  from  her 
brown  study — woke  her  up  with  a  shai*p  jerk. 

"It's  twelve  o'clock!"  she  exclaimed  shrilly,  "and  I 
want  my  dinner !     Call  Midge !" 

This  was  addressed  to  Captain  Cavendish,  and  in  so 
peremptory  a  tone  that  that  gallant  young  officer  looked 
alarmed  and  disconcerted. 

"  Call  Midge,  I  tell  you !  Call  her  quick !"  yclperj 
Lady  Leroy  in  an  excited  way.  "  Call  Midge,  will  you  V 
"Where  is  she  ?  Where  will  I  call  her  ?"  said  the  youn^ 
man,  in  considerable  consternation. 


68     KILUNQ     TFO    BIRB8     WTTB    ONE    STONE. 

"  Open  tliat  door,  stupid,  and  call  Midge !"  ciied  tlie 
old  woman,  violently  excited  ;  "  call  her  quick,  I  tell  you !" 

Thus  ordered,  Captain  Cavendish  opened  the  door  and 
began  calling  loudly  on  the  imknown  lady  bearing  the 
name  of  Midge. 

Out  of  the  gloom  and  dismalness  below  a  hoarse  voic€ 
shouted  in  reply,  "  I'm  a  coming ;"  and  Captain  Cavendish 
went  back  to  his  seat.  The  voice  was  that  of  a  man,  and 
of  a  man  with  a  shocking  bad  cold,  too ;  and  the  step  lum- 
bering up  stairs  was  a  man's  step ;  but  for  all  that.  Midge 
wasn't  a  man,  but  a  woman.  Such  a  woman !  the  Egyptian 
mummy  in  the  arm-chair  was  a  Parisian  belle  compared  to 
her.  Between  three  and  four  feet  high,  and  between  four 
and  five  feet  broad,  Midg?  was  just  able  to  waddle  under 
the  weight  of  her  own  fair  pereon,  and  no  more.  A  shock 
of  hair,  very  like  a  tar-mop,  stood,  bristling  defiance  at 
combs  and  brashes,  up  on  end,  like  "  quills  upon  the  fretful 
porcupine."  To  say  she  had  no  forehead,  and  only  two 
pinholes  for  eyes,  and  a  little  round  lump  of  flesh  in  lieu 
of  a  decent  nose,  would  be  doing  no  sort  of  justice  to  the 
subject ;  for  the  face,  with  its  fat,  puffy  cheeks,  was  alto- 
gether indescribable.  The  costume  of  the  lady  was  scant, 
her  dress  displaying  to  the  best  advantage  a  pair  of  ankles 
some  fifteen  inches  in  circumference,  and  a  pair  of  power- 
ful arms,  bare  to  the  shouldere,  were  rolled  up  in  a  cotton 
apron.  With  the  airy  tread  of  an  elephant  inclined  to 
embonpoint,  this  sylph-like  being  crossed  the  hall  and  stood 
in  the  dooi-way  awaiting  orders,  while  Captain  Cavendish 
stared  aghast,  and  backed  a  few  paces  with  a  feeble  "  By 
Jove!" 

"  What  do  you  want,  ma*am  ?"  inquired  the  damsel  in 
the  doorway,  who  might  have  been  anywhere  in  the  vale 
of  years  between  twenty  and  fifty. 

"  Get  my  dinner !  It's  after  twelve  I  Don't  I  always 
tell  you  to  come  and  get  my  dinner  when  you  hear  the 
clock  strike  twelve  V 

"  And  how  do  you  suppose  I  can  bear  that  there  clock 
half  a  mile  off,  down  in  that  kitchen !"  retorted  Midge, 
sharply.  "  I  ain't  jest  got  ears  as  sharp  as  lancets,  I'd  have 
you  Know.     I'll  take  the  key  1" 


KILLING    TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE.      67 

Mrs.  Leroy  produced  a  key  from  a  pocket  somewhere 
about  her ;  and  Midge,  rather  jerking  it  out  of  her  hands 
than  otherwise,  unlocked  the  pantry,  and  began  busying 
liej'self  among  the  forage  there.  Mrs.  Leroy's  keen  eyes 
followed  every  motion  as  a  cat  follows  its  prey,  and  Captain 
Cavendish  gazed  too,  as  if  fascinated,  on  the  fairy  form  of 
Miss  Midge.  In  passing  to  and  fro,  Midge  had  more  than 
once  cauglit  his  eye,  and  at  last  her  feelings  got  the  better 
of  her,  and,  pausing  abruptly  before  him,  with  her  arms 
akimbo,  burst  out,  "  Look  here,  sir !  I  don't  know  who 
you  are,  but  if  you're  a  doggertype-man,  come  to  take  my 
picter,  I'd  jest  thank  you  to  be  quick  about  it,  and  not  sit 
there  gaping  like " 

"  Midge !"  called  a  ringing  voice  in  the  doorway.  It 
was  Nathalie,  her  face  stern,  her  voice  imperative.  "  Midge, 
how  dare  you  speak  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  !"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  who,  in 
the  main,  was  a  good-natured  young  officer.  "  I  deserve 
it,  I  dare  say.  I  have  made  an  unpardonably  long  call,  I 
believe.     Mi's.  Leroy,  I  wish  you  good  morning." 

"  Good  morning !"  said  Mrs,  Leroy,  without  looking  at 
him,  all  her  eyes  b^ing  absorbed  in  the  doings  of  Midge 
in  the  culinary  department.     "  Natty,  you  let  him  out." 

Natty  did  so,  and  they  both  laughed  when  at  a  safe 
distance. 

"  What  did  you  do  to  Midge  ?"  she  inquired,  "  to  tempt 
her  to  pour  the  vials  of  her  wrath  on  your  head,  as  she 
was  doing  when  I  came  in." 

"  Staring  very  hard,  I  am  afraid !  Where  is  Baraum, 
that  he  does  not  get  hold  of  that  domestic  monstrosity  ?" 

"  Oh,  hush !"  said  Natty.  But  the  warning  came  too 
late.  Midge,  descending  the  stairs,  had  heard  the  speech, 
and  gave  the  speaker  a  look  so  baleful  and  vindictive,  that, 
had  he  been  troubled  with  those  feminine  miseries,  nerves, 
might  have  haunted  him  many  a  day.  He  smiled  at  it 
then,  but  he  remembered  that  look  long  after. 

"  She  is  acutely  sensitive,  dull  as  she  seems,"  said  Natty, 
with  a  pained  look.     "  I  am  sorry  she  heard  you." 

"  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  my  thoughtless  words,  then, 
Miss  Marsh,  if  they  pain  you." 
8* 


5S      KILLING     TWO    BIRDS     WITH    ONE    STONE. 

"  She  saved  Charley's  life  once,"  said  Natty,  "  when  he 
was  a  little  fellow.  I  have  always  liked  Midge  since,  and 
I  believe  she  loves  me  with  the  faithful  and  blind  lidelity 
of — bat  no  irreverence — a  dog.  A  slighting  word  rankles 
in  her  memory  long." 

"  I  shall  fetch  her  a  peace-offering  the  next  time  I  come, 
which,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  coolly,  "  is  to  be  this  evening, 
with  your  permission.  Blake  is  to  be  my  chaperon  on  the 
occasion." 

"I  regret  I  shall  not  see  either  of  you  then;  but," 
said  Natty,  with  a  funny  look,  "  no  doubt  Mrs.  Leroy  will 
be  delighted  to  entertain  you  till  her  bedtime  comes,  wliich 
is  precisely  nine  o'clock." 

"  Not  see  us  ?    Are  you " 

"  I  have  promised  to  spend  the  evening  out.  When  I 
was  with  the  gardener  a  few  moments  ago,  Miss  Blake 
came  in  and  asked  me  to  spend  the  evening  with  her. 
Mamma  and  Miss  Rose,  the  new  teacher,  are  to  be  there, 
and  I  could  not  refuse." 

"  Then  I  shall  postpone  my  call.  Oh,  there  is  a  sum- 
mons for  you !     How  impatient  your  old  lady  is !" 

They  shook  hands,  and  parted.  Captain  Cavendish  lit 
a  cigar,  and  went  smoking,  meditatiugly,  down  the  dreary 
avenue,  and  out  into  the  highroad.  Standing  near  the 
gate  was  pretty  Cherrie,  and  a  refulgent  smile  greeted  him 
from  the  rosy  lips.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and  passed  on ;  for 
standing  in  the  doorway  was  the  stalwart  young  lishermen 
of  the  beach. 

"  Two  very  pretty  girls !"  he  mused,  over  his  Havana ; 
"  helZe  hlande,  etjolie  h'unette.  It's  extremely  convenient 
their  living  so  near  together ;  one  journey  does  for  both. 
I  think  1  understand  now  what  is  meant  by  the  old  adage 
of  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone." 


AN   EVENING    AT    MISS    BLAKE'S.  09 

CHAPTEK  YL 

AN  EVENING  AT  MISS  BLAKE*  8. 

HE  establisliment  of  Miss  Joanna  Blake  was  not 
on  a  scale  of  magnitlcence.  Miss  Jo's  only 
parlor  being  about  ten  feet  square,  was  not  too 
grandly  vast  at  any  time,  and  not  exactly 
adapted  for  the  mirthful  throng  to  disport 
themselves  in.  The  style  of  furniture,  too,  was,  some 
people  might  think,  on  a  trifle  too  grand  a  scale  for  its 
dimensions.  When  Yal,  and  his  fourteen  or  fifteen  friends 
aforesaid,  lit  their  cigars,  tilted  back  their  chairs,  elevated 
the  heels  of  their  boots  on  the  piano  or  table,  and  all  puffed 
away  together,  the  parlor  became  rather  obscure,  and  a 
stranger  suddenly  entering  might  have  conceived  the  idea 
that  the  house  was  in  flames ;  and  that,  perhaps,  was  the 
reason  tlie  parlor  always  smelt  like  a  tobacconist's  shop. 
Besides  the  parlor.  Miss  Jo  had  a  dining-room  and  a  kitch- 
en, and  two  bedrooms,  in  the  floor,  though,  and  she  did 
her  own  work. 

In  the  parlor  of  No.  16  Great  St.  Peter's  Street,  the 
lamp  was  lit,  the  drab  moreen  curtains  let  down,  and  the 
table  set  for  tea.  There  was  a  snowy  cloth  on  the  mahog- 
any which  hid  the  marks  of  the  bootheels  and  the  stains 
of  the  punch-tum])lers,  and  the  china  cups  and  saucers, 
and  the  glass  preserve-plates  and  butter-dish,  and  spoon- 
holder,  not  to  speak  of  the  spoons  themselves,  which  were 
of  real  silver,  and  had  cost  a  dollar  a  piece,  and  had  a  big 
capital  "B"  engraven  thereon,  glittered  and  flaslied  in 
the  light.  There  was  buttered  toast,  and  hot  biscuit,  and 
pound-cake,  and  fruit-cake,  and  mince-pie,  and  qnince- 
jelly,  and  cold  chicken,  and  coffee  and  tea — all  the  Avork 
of  Miss  Jo's  own  fair  hands ;  and  Miss  Jo  herself,  rather 
flushed  with  the  heat,  but  very  imposing  and  stately  to 
look  at  in  a  green  poplin  dress — real  Irish  pophn  at  that — 
and  a  worked  collar  a  flnger-length  deep,  presided  at  the 


60  Alf    EVENING     AT    MISS    BLAKE'S. 

tea-tray,  and  dispensed  the  hospitalities  of  the  festive  board. 
Val,  sitting  opposite,  did  his  part,  which  consisted  chiefly 
in  attempting  to  pass  the  cake-plates,  and  spilling  their 
contents,  of  upsetting  everything  he  touched,  and  looking 
mildly  but  reproachfully  at  the  refractory  object  afterward. 
Mrs.  Marsh  was  there,  placid,  and  insipid,  and  faded,  and 
feeble,  as  usual ;  and  Miss  Rose  was  there,  pale  and  pretty ; 
and  Miss  Clowrie  was  there,  smiling  and  soft  of  voice,  and 
deft  of  touch,  and  purring  more  than  ever ;  and  Miss  Blair 
was  there,  laughing  at  all  the  funny  things,  and  rosy  as 
Hebe  herself ;  and  Charley  Marsh  was  there,  making  a 
martyr  of  himself  in  the  attempt  to  be  fascinating  to  three 
young  ladies  at  once ;  and  everybody  had  eaten  and  drank, 
forced  thereto  by  Miss  Blake,  until  they  were,  as  Charley 
forcibly  put  it,  "a  misery  to  themselves."  So  a  move 
was  made  to  adjourn,  which  just  consisted  of  pushing  their 
chairs  about  five  inches  from  the  table,  not  being  able 
to  push  them  any  further,  and  Miss  Jo  began  rattling 
amon^^  the  tea-things,  which  she  called  clearing  them  oil 
Miss  Catty,  always  sweet  and  obliging,  and  that  sort  of  a 
thing,  insisted  on  helping  her,  and  Charley  opening  the 
upright,  clattered  a  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe"  in  spirited  style. 

"  Come  and  sing  us  a  song,  Laura — ^that's  a  good  girl,'' 
he  said,  while  Val,  making  an  apology,  slipped  out. 
"  Come  and  sing  '  The  Laird  o'  Cockpen.'  " 

Miss  Blair,  all  smiles,  took  her  seat,  and  sung  not 
only  "  The  Laird  o'  Cockpen,"  but  a  dozen  others  of  the 
same  kidney. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?"  inquired  Miss  Blair, 
triuniphantly  rising  up,  with  a  finishing  bang.  "  Who 
says  I  can't  sing?    Now,  Miss  Rose,  you  sing,  I  know." 

"Of  course  she  does,"  said  Charley.  "Miss  Rose, 
permit  me  to  lead  you  to  the  instrument." 

Miss  Rose  looked  as  though  she  were  about  to  excuse 
herself,  but  that  impulsive  Laura  Blair  ran  over  and  caught 
her  by  both  hands. 

"  lip  with  you !  We  won't  take  any  excuses.  Charley, 
the  young  lady  is  at  your  mercy,  lead  her  off." 

Charley  promptly  did  so.    Miss  Rose,  smiling  gra 


AN   EVENINB    AT    MISS    BLAKE'S.  61 

eionsly,  ran  her  white  fingers  over  the  yellow  keys,  and 
looked  up  at  him. 

*'  What  shall  I  sing,  Monsienr  ?" 

"  Anything  yon  please,  Mademoiselle.  I  am  prepared 
to  he  delighted  with  '  Old  Dan  Tueker,'  if  you  chose  it." 

The  white  fingers  still  ran  idly  over  the  keys,  hreak- 
ing  into  a  plaintive  prelude  at  last,  and  in  a  voice,  "  low 
and  sweet  "  as  Annie  Laurie's  own,  the  song  hegan.  The 
Avords  were  those  of  a  gifted  young  American  poetess ; 
the  melody,  a  low  sweet  air,  in  a  melancholy  minor  key — 
Miss  Rose's  own,  perhaps. 

The  sweet  voice  faltered  a  little  toward  the  close  ;  hut 
as  a  buzz  of  congratulation  ran  around  the  circle  she  arose 
hastily.  Arose  to  find  herself  face  to  face  "with  two  gen- 
tlemen who  had  entered  as  she  hegan  her  song,  and  who 
had  stood  silently  listening  with  tlie  rest.  It  was  Captain 
Cavendish  and  Yal ;  and  tlie  young  otiicer's  face  wove  a 
look  no  one  in  that  room  had  ever  seen  it  wear  beforc — a 
pale  and  startled  look  of  anxiety,  almost  of  fear — and  as 
she  faced  them  he  .backed  a  few  paces  involniitarily. 
Miss  Rose,  evidently  taken  completely  by  surprise,  started 
visibly,  growing  white  and  red  by  tnnis.  IJnt  Val  ^vas 
introducing  tlieni,  and  only  he  and  one  other  present  saw 
the  changing  faces  of  the  twain.  That  other  uas  Miss 
Catty  Clowrie,  whose  eyes  were  as  keen  as  any  other  cat's, 
and  who  watched  them  furtively,  with  vividest  interest. 
Miss  Catty  was  enough  of  a  matliematician  to  know  there 
is  no  effect  without  a  cause.  What,  then,  was  the  cause 
of  this  'i  It  was  easily  enough  answered.  Captain  Cav- 
endish and  Miss  Rose  had  met  before,  and  had  known 
each  other  well,  though  they  were  now  bowing  as  perfect 
strangers.  The  elegant  oflicer  had  recovered  all  his  high- 
bred sangfroid,  and  was  smooth  and  bland  as  sweet  oil ; 
but  Miss  Rose's  face  had  settled  into  so  deadly  a  pallor 
that  Mi's.  Marsh,  albeit  not  the  most  eagle-sighted  in  the 
world,  noticed  it. 

"  Dear  me,  Miss  Rose,  how  pale  you  are ;  Aren't  you 
well?" 

Miss  Rose  murmured  something  about  the  heat,  and 
subsided  into  the  most  shadowy  corner  she  could  find ; 


68  AN    EVENING    AT    MISS    BLAKE'S. 

and  Charley  created  a  divereion  by  sitting  down  to  tlie 
piano  himself  and  rattling  off  a  jingling  symphony. 

In  the  midst  of  it  carriai^e  wheels  rolled  up  to  the 
door  of  No.  10,  and  the  first-noor  bell  rang  loudly  a  min- 
ute after. 

"  That's  Natty,"  said  Charley. 

Miss  Jo  met  her  in  the  hall  and  escorted  her  to  her 
bedroom,  which  was  the  dressing-room  for  the  evening  ; 
and  presently  Miss  Natlialie  came  in,  dressed  in  black  silk, 
trimmed  with  black  lace,  and  all  her  beautiful  golden  hair 
falling  in  glittering  ringlets  over  her  shoulders,  her  cheeks 
glowing  with  the  rapid  ride  through  the  night  air,  Bril- 
uaut  she  looked  ;  and  Captain  Cavendish's  heart,  or  what- 
ever the  thing  is  that  does  duty  for  a  heart  with  men  of 
the  world,  quickened  its  beating  a  little,  as  he  shook  hands. 
Nathalie  kissed  Miss  Rose,  sitting  so  very  still  in  her  quiet 
comer. 

"  My  pale  little  girl !  Here  you  sit  like  a  white  shadow, 
all  by  yourself.  Charley,  what  on  earth  are  you  shouting 
there  ?" 

"  Now,  Natty,  it's  your  turn,"  said  Miss  Jo. 

"  Here's  the  cards,"  said  Charley,  laying  hold  of  a  pack. 
"  While  Natty's  singing  we'll  play  '  Muggins.'  Does  any- 
body here  know  '  Muggins'  ?" 

Nobody  did. 

"What  a  disgrace!  Then  I'll  teach  you.  Miss  Jo, 
I'll  sit  beside  you.  Come  along,  captain ;  here  Laura, 
Catty,  Val,  mother ;  Miss  Rose,  won't  you  join  us  ?" 

"Don't,  Miss  Rose,"  said  Natty,  who  was  playing  a 
waltz,  "  They're  nothing  but  a  noisy  set.  Come  here 
and  sing  with  me." 

Natty  sung  everything — Italian  arias,  French  chan- 
Bonettes,  German  and  Scotch  ballads ;  her  full,  rich  soprano 
voice  tilling  the  room  with  melody,  as  on  Sundays  it  tilled 
the  long  cathedral  aisles.  Natty's  voice  was  superb — Miss 
Rose  listened  like  one  entranced.  So  did  another.  Captain 
Cavendish,  who  made  all  sorts  of  blunders  in  the  game, 
and  could  not  learn  it  at  all,  for  watching  the  two  black 
figures  at  the  piano — the  little  pale  girl  with  the  modest 
brown  braids,  anxi  the  stately  heiress  with  her  shining  yel- 


Air   EVENING    AT    MISS    BLAEEP8.  08 

low  curls.  Catty  Clowrie  watched  them  and  the  captain, 
and  the  game  too,  noting  everything,  and  making  no  mis- 
takes. A  very  noisy  party  they  were,  every  one  langhing, 
expostulating,  and  straining  their  voices  together,  and 
Ciiarley  winning  everything  right  and  left. 

''  I  say,  Cavendish,  old  fellow  !  what  are  you  thinking 
of  ?"  cried  Val.  ''  This  is  the  third  time  I've  told  you  to 
play." 

Captain  Cavendish  started  into  recollection,  and  began 
playing  with  the  wildest  rapidity,  utterly  at  random. 

"  Look  here.  Natty,"  called  Charley,  as  the  card-party, 
moKC  noisy  than'  ever,  broke  up  ;  "  1  say  it's  not  fair  of 
you  to  monopolize  Miss  Eose  all  the  evening.  Here's 
Captain  Cavendish  has  lost  all  his  spare  change,  because 
he  couldn't  watch  the  game  for  watching  that  piano." 

Miss  Rose  retreated  hastily  to  her  comer;  Natty 
wheeled  round  on  the  piano-stool. 

"What  noise  you  have  been  making.  Have  you 
finished  your  game  ?" 

Charley  jingled  a  pocketful  of  pennies — Speckport 
pennies  at  that — as  large  as  quoits. 

"  Y^es,  we  have  finished,  for  the  simple  reason  I  have 
cleaned  the  whole  party  completely  out,  and  I  have  won 
small  change  enough  to  keep  me  in  cigars  for  the  next 
two  months.     Who's  this?" 

"  It's  somebody  for  me,"  said  Natty,  starting  up ; 
"  that's  Rob  Nettleby's  knock." 

" Don't  go  yet.  Natty,"  said  Val,  "it  is  too  early." 

"  It  is  half-past  ten  ;  I  should  have  been  off  half  an 
hour  ago.     Miss  Blake,  my  things,  please." 

Miss  Jo  produced  a  white  cloud  and  large  cloak,  and 
Natty's  move  was  a  signal  for  all  to  depart.  Catty,  Laura, 
Miss  Hose,  and  Mrs.  Marsh's  mufflipgs  liad  to  be  got,  and 
the  little  parlor  was  a  scene  of  "  confusion  woi*sc  con- 
founded." 

Val  strolled  over  to  where  Captain  Cavendish  was 
making  himself  useful,  helping  Miss  Marsh  on  with  her 
cloak. 

"  Natty,  I'll  go  home  with  you,  if  you  like,"  said  polite 


64  AN    EVENING    AT    MISS    BLAKE'S. 

Val ;  "  It  will  be  rather  a  dismal  drive  up  there  with  no 
one  but  Rob  Nettleby." 

"  IMr.  Rlake  is  forestalled,"  said  Captain  Cavendish, 
coolly.     "  Miss  Marsh  has  accorded  the  honor  to  me." 

"Ail  viglil,"  said  Val,  "  I'll  g^o  home  with  Laura  Blair, 
ill  en.  Charley  can  take  care  of  the  other  three,  for  Catty 
Uves  next  door." 

Lady  Leroy's  carryall,  with  Cherrie  Nettleby's  elder 
brother  for  driver,  was  waiting  at  the  door.  Good-byes 
were  said,  Katty  kissed  her  mamma,  Laura  and  Miss  Rose, 
but  only  shook  hands  with  Miss  Clowrie.  Captain  Caven- 
dish noticed  the  omission  as  he  seated  himself  beside  her, 
and  they  drove  off. 

"  1  don't  like  her,'-  said  Natty  ;  "  I  never  did,  since  I 
was  a  child.  She  was  such  a  crafty,  cunning  little  thing 
in  those  days — a  sort  of  spy  on  the  rest  of  us — a  sort  of 
female  Uriah  Heep." 

"  Is  she  so  still  ?"      • 

"  Oh,  no  ;  she  is  well  enough  now;  but  old  prejudices 
cling  to  one,  you  know.  I  don't  like  her,  because  I  don't 
hke  her — an  excellent  female  reason,  you  understand." 

''  Does  your  brother  share  your  prejudices.  Miss 
Mai-sh  f  asked  the  young  otKcer,  with  a  meaning  smile. 

''  Charley  ?     I  don't  know.     Why  ?" 

"  13c(niuse  I  fancy  the  young  lady  is  rather  disposed  to 
regard  him  with  favor.     I  may  be  mistaken,  though." 

Natty  suddenly  drew  herself  up. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Captiun  Cavendish.  Catty 
Clowi-io  has  sense,  whatever  else  she  may  lack,  and  nevei 
would  drc'\m  of  so  preposterous  a  thing." 

"  Pardon  !  it  has  been  my  mistake,  tlien.  You  seem 
to  be  all  old  friends  in  this  place." 

"  Oh,"  said  Natty,  with  her  gay  laugh,  "  every  one 
knows  every  one  else  in  Speckport,  and  a  stranger  is  a 
marked  being  at  once.  Apropos  of  strangers,  M'hat  a  per- 
fect darling  that  Miss  Rose  is." 

"  How  very  young-ladylike  !  Miss  Rose  does  not 
sound  like  a  family  name  ;  has  she  no  other  cognomen?" 

"  Her  letter  to  me  was  signed  W.  Rose.    I  don't  know 


AN   EVSmNG    AT    MISS    BLAKEPS.  «5 

what  the  *  W '  is  for.     I  think  she  has  the  sweetest  face  I 
ever  saw." 

"  What  a  lovely  night  it  is  ?"  was  Captain  Cavendish's 
somewhat  irrelevant  answer ;  and  had  the  moon  been  shin- 
ing, Natty  might  have  seen  the  flush  his  face  wore,  Per- 
liaps  it  was  the  sea-breeze,  tliough ;  for  it  was  blowing  up 
\  fresh  and  bracing,  and  a  liost  of  stars  spangled  a  sky  of 
cloudless  blue.  The  monotonous  plash  of  the  waves  on  the 
shore  came  dully  booming  over  the  rattle  of  their  own  car- 
riage-wheels. 

**  What  are  the  wild  waves  saying  ?  Miss  Rose  and  I 
have  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  us  :  we  both  love  the 
sea.  I  suppose,"  said  Natty,  going  off  into  another  sub- 
ject, "  Mrs.  Leroy  will  read  me  a.  lecture  for  my  long  stay, 
when  I  get  back." 

"  Will  she  not  be  asleej)  ?" 

"  Asleep  ?  No,  indeed  ;  I  believe  if  I  staid  out  for  a 
week  she  would  never  close  an  eye  until  I  got  back." 

"  Is  she  so  very  fond  of  you,  then  V 

"  It  is  not  that ;  though  I  think  she  is  as  fond  of  me 
as  it  is  in  her  nature  to  be  of  anytiiing,  except,"  with  an 
other  laugh,  "  eating  and  money.  It  is  fear  that  keeps 
her  awake  ;  she  dreads  being  left  alone." 

"  Why  ?     Not  from  an  evil  conscience,  I  trust." 

"  For  shame,  sir.  No,  she  always  keeps  a  large  sum 
of  money  in  her  chamber — ^}'ou  saw  that  queer  cabinet — 
■well,  in  that ;  and  she  is  terribly  scared  of  robbej^,  in  spite 
of  all  our  bolts  and  bars." 

"  She  should  not  keep  it  about  her,  then." 

"  Very  true ;  but  she  will.  I  sleep  in  the  room  next 
hers,  and  I  presume  she  feels  my  presence  there  a  sort  of 
safeguard  against  burglars.  In  Midge  she  has  no  conti- 
dence  whatever." 

"  And  yet  I  should  consider  Midge  the  greatest  pos- 
sible safeguard.  The  sight  of  her  might  scare  away  an 
army  of  robbers," 

"  Now,  now !"  cried  Natty.  "  I  shall  not  have  Midge 
abused.  She  is  the  most  faithful  and  tnistworthy  creature 
that  ever  lived." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  you  will  own  that  she  is  not  the 
most  lovely.     When  I  was  a  boy  at  Eton,  I  used  to  read 


66  AN    EVENINQ    AT    MISS    BLAKE'S. 

German  legends  of  beautiful  princesses  guarded  bj  malig- 
nant spirits,  in  uncouth  human  forms.  I  thought  of  the 
stories  this  morning  when  I  was  at  Redmon." 

"  That's  a  compliment,  I  suppose,"  said  Natty,  "  but  I 
don't  relish  compliments,  I  can  tell  you,  at  Midge's  ex- 
pense.    Here  we  are  at  the  cottage." 

"  "What  cottage  is  it  ?"  Captain  Cavendish  asked,  for- 
getting suddenly  that  he  had  spent  half  an  hour  there  that 
very  morning. 

"  The  Nettlebys.  The  father  is  our  gardener ;  the  sons, 
tlie  whole  family,  make  themselves  useful  about  the  pld,ce, 
all  but  Cherrie,  who  is  more  for  ornament  than  use.  Here 
we  are  at  Redmon,  and  there  is  the  light  burning  in  Mrs. 
Leroy!s  window." 

"  Does  it  burn  all  night  ?"  he  asked,  looking  up  at  it. 

'*  No ;  it  is  a  beacon  for  me.  I  must  go  to  her  room 
tlie  first  thing  now,  give  an  account  of  myself,  and  extin- 
guish it.  Good-night ;  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  your  soli- 
tary journey  back." 

"  I  shall  have  pleasant  thoughts  of  a  lady  fair  to  keep 
me  company.     Are  you  sure  you  can  get  in  f 

"  Midge  is  opening  the  door  now  ;  once  more,  good- 
niglit." 

Waving  her  hand  to  him,  she  was  gone  while  she 
spoke.  Midge  stood  blinking  in  the  doorway,  holding  a 
candle  above  her  head,  wliich  tar-mop  was  now  tied  up  in 
a  red  flannel  petticoat. 

She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  liand,  peering  out  at  the 
tall  figure  in  the  loose  overcoat ;  and  wlieii  she  made  sure 
of  his  identity,  slamming  the  door  to  with  a  bang  that  left 
no  doubt  of  her  feelings  toward  him. 

"  !Midge,  why  did  you  do  that  V  Natty  said,  reprov- 
ingly- 

'•  Because  I  never  want  to  see  his  wicked  face  here, 
Miss  Natty  ;  that's  why !"  cried  Midge,  shrilly;  "and  1 
don't  want  to  see  him  with  you,  for  he  is  a  villain,  and  he 
will  tnrn  out  one,  if  he  was  ten  ofticere,  ten  times  over." 

But  Natty  was  flying  up  the  polished  stau-s  with  a  new 
happiness  at  her  heart,  singing  as  she  went  a  snatch  of 
"  Love's  Youner  Dream.'' 


TOO    MANY   IRONS    IN    THE    FIRE.  91 

CHAPTER   711. 

TOO  MANY  IKONS  IN  THE  FIRE. 

K;^:fMp|R.  VAL  BLAKE  was  a  young  gentleman  pos- 
|,^j^i:  sessing  a  great  many  admirable  virtues,  among 
^^^  others  the  fearful  one  of  always  saying  what  he 
c^jjjjfcll  thought.  Another,  not  quite  so  terrible  to  so- 
ciety, was  that  of  early  rising.  The  sun,  when- 
ever that  luminary  condescended  to  show  its  face  in  Speck- 
port,  which  wasij't  so  very  often,  never  found  him  in  bed, 
either  winter  or  summer.  Val  might  be  up  until  two 
o'clock  in  the  office,  as  he  sometimes  was  in  busy  seasons, 
euch  as  election  times,  but  that  never  prevented  his  rising 
at  half-past  four  the  next  morning,  as  bright  as  a  new 
penny. 

Val  had  escorted  Miss  Laura  Blair  home  from  his  sis- 
ter's little  sociable — not  only  escorted  her  home,  in  fact, 
but  had  gone  in  with  her.  .  It  was  past  eleven  tlien,  but 
Papa  Blair  had  invited  him  to  blow  a  friendly  cloud,  and 
Val  had  accej)ted  the  invitation.  There  they  sat,  smoking 
and  talking  politics  until  after  one,  and  it  was  half-past 
when  he  got  back  to  No.  16  Great  St.  Peter's  Street ;  but 
for  all  that,  here  he  was  next  morning  at  the  hour  of  six, 
coming  striding  along  the  sea-shore,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  a  towel  in  his  hand.  Val  had  been  taking  a  sea-bath, 
his  invariable  custom  every  fine  morning,  from  the  first  of 
May  to  the  last  of  October,  to  the  alarming  increase  of  his 
appetite  for  breakfast.  There  were  few  to  be  met  on  the 
sand,  at  that  hour,  except  in  the  fishing  seasons  ;  and  the 
fishermen  not  being  in  yet  from  the  night's  work,  the 
shore  was  entirely  deserted.  The  editor  of  the  Speckport 
Gazette  had  not  the  shore  all  to  himself  after  all ;  for,  as 
ho  passed  a  jutting  bowlder,  he  came  in  view  of  a  fiuttering 
ii'j:ure  walking  slowly  on  before.  The  black  dress  waving 
i:i  the  breeze,  the  slender  form  in  the  long  black  mantle, 


68  TOO    MAN7    IRONS    IN    THE    FIRE. 

the  little  straw  hat,  and  the  brown  braid  were  familiar  by 
this  time. 

Miss  Kose,  the  pretty  little  school-teacher,  was  taking 
an  early  constitutional  as  well  as  himself,  with  a  book  for 
Iier  only  companion.  Val's  long  legs  were  beginning  to 
measure  oS  the  sand  in  vast  strides,  to  join  her,  when  lio 
was  forestalled  most  unexpectedly.  Starting  np  from  be- 
hind a  tall  rock,  in  whose  shadow  on  the  warm  sand  he 
had  been  lying,  his  hat  pnlled  over  his  eyes  to  protect  him 
from  the  sun,  a  gentleman  came  forward,  lifted  his  hat, 
and  accosted  her.  Val  knew  the  gentleman  quite  as  well 
as  ho  did  the  lady,  and  stopped.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice 
coming  so  suddenly,  she  had  recoiled  with  a  suppresse;! 
cry,  but  at  sight  of  whom  it  was,  she  stood  perfectly  still, 
as  if  transfixed. 

There  was  a  path  np  the  hillside — the  very  path  Caj)- 
tain  Cavendish  had  been  shown  by  the  young  Nettlebys 
the  day  before.  Val  turned  up  this,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  mind  in  a  state  of  soliloquy. 

"  I'm  not  wanted,  I  expect ;  so  I'll  keep  clear !  There's 
something  queer  about  this — they  were  both  taken  aback 
last  night,  were  they  not  ?  She's  a  pretty  little  thing,  and 
he's  been  in  Montreal,  I  know ;  was  quartered  there  before 
he  was  ordered  to  Halifax.  I  suppose  it's  the  old  story — ■ 
he  always  was  a  flirt,  and  his  handsome  face  sets  the  girls 
loony  wherever  he  goes.  Miss  Rose  looks  sensible,  but  I 
dare  say  she's  as  bad  as  the- rest." 

Val's  suspicions  might  have  become  certainty  had  he 
been  listening  to  the  conversation  of  the  young  officer  and 
the  little  school-teacher ;  but  there  was  no  one  to  listen, 
except  the  waves  and  the  wind,  and  the  seagulls  clanging 
over  their  heads. 

"  Winnie !"  Captain  Cavendish  was  hurriedly  saying, 
"I  knew  you  would  be  here,  and  I  have  been  waiting  for 
the  past  half  hour.  No,  do  not  go !  Pray  stay  and  hear 
me  out." 

"  I  must  go!"  Miss  Rose  said,  in  a  violent  tremor  and 
agitation.  "You  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Captain  Cav* 
endish.    I  cannot  be  seen  here  with  you." 


TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    TEE    FIEE.  69 

"  There  is  no  one  to  see  us — the  shore  is  deserted ! 
Winnia!  jou  must  stay." 

She  had  turned  to  go ;  but  he  caught  hei'  hand,  his 
own  face  pale  as  hers  had  turned. 

"  Let  go  my  hand,  sir !"  she  cried,  in  so  peremptory  a 
tone  that  he  dropped  it  at  once  ;  "  every  word  you  speak 
to  me  is  an  insult !     Let  me  go  !" 

"  Only  one  moment,  Winnie." 

Again  she  interposed,  her  eyes  quite  flashing. 

"  Hav^e  the  goodness,  Captain  Cavendish,  to  be  a  little 
less  familiar ;  to  cease  calling  me  Winnie." 

"  What  shall  I  call  you,  then  ?"  lie  said,  with  a  strange 
look,  "Miss  Eose?" 

She  turned  away,  and  made  a  little  passionate  gesture 
with  her  hand. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  call  me  anything — to  speak  to 
me  at  all !  I  do  not  know  what  evil  fate  has  driven  us 
together  here  ;  but  if  you  have  one  feeling  of  honor,  Cap- 
tain Cavendish,  you  will  leave  me  in  peace — ^you  will  let 
me  alone.  My  lot  is  not  such  a  happy  one  that  you  should 
wish  to  destroy  the  little  comfort  I  have  left." 

Her  voice  choked  and  something  fell  on  her  book  and 
wet  it.  The  face  of  the  English  officer  looked  strangely 
moved  for  him. 

"  Heaven  knows,  Winnie,  I  have  no  desire  to  disturb 
it ;  I  have  been  a  villain — we  both  know  that — but  des- 
tiny was  against  me.  I  am  poor;  I  am  in  debt — I  was 
then — what  could  I  do  ?" 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  ?"  was  her  answer,  without  turn- 
ing her  averted  face  to  him. 

"  Am  I,  then,  utterly  hateful  to  you  ?"  he  asked,  with 
some  bitterness.  "  You  have  soon  forgotten  the  past,  but 
I  deserve  it !  I  do  not  ask  what  chain  of  circumstances 
brought  you  here ;  I  only  ask,  being  here,  that  you  will 
not  reveal  the  story  of — of  what  is  past  and  gone.  Will 
you  promise  me  this,  Winnie?" 

"  What  right  have  you  to  ask  any  promise  of  me  ?" 
she  demanded,  her  gentle  voice  full  of  indignation. 

"  Very  little,  I  know ;  but  still,  I  want  the  promise, 
Winnie,  for  your  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  me." 


70  TOO    MANY    IRON'S    m    THE    FIRE. 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  tell ;  the  stoiy  of  one's  own  folly 
is  not  too  pleasant  to  repeat.  And  now,  in  return,  Cap- 
M  lain  Cavendish,  I  want,  I  demand,  a  promise  from  you  ! 
We  met  last  night  as  strangers,  as  strangers  let  us  meet 
henceforth.  Go  your  own  way.  I  shall  not  molest  you, 
never  fear ;  and  be  generous  enough  to  grant  me  the  same 
lavor.  My  life  is  to  be  one  of  hard  work.  1  do  not  regret 
that.  Let  me  hnd  happiness  in  my  own  way,  and  do  not 
disturb  me  any  more." 

"  And  it  has  all  come,  to  this  !"  he  said,  moodily,  look- 
ing out  over  the  wide  sea.  "  Well,  Winnie,  let  it  be  as 
you  wish,  only  I  never  thought  you  could  be  so  unforgiv- 
ing." 

"  I  liave  forgiven  long  ago  ;  I  want  to  try  and  forget 
as  well !" 

She  walked  rapidly  away.  Only  once  had  she  looked 
at  him  all  the  time — after  that  first  glance  of  recognition, 
her  face  had  been  averted. 

Captain  Cavendish  watched  her  out  of  sight,  took  two 
or  three  turns  up  and  down  the  sand,  and  then  strolled 
away  to  his  lodgings.  His  rooms  were  in  the  Speckpoii: 
House,  fronting  on  Queen  Street ;  and  after  disposing  of 
his  beefsteak  and  eolfee  mth  a  very  good  appetite,  he 
seated  himself  near  an  open  window,  to  smoke  no  end  of 
cigars  and  watch  the  jjassers-by. 

A  great  many  passers-by  there  were,  and  nearly  all 
strangers  to  him ;  but  presently,  two  young  men  went 
strutting  past,  arm-in-arm,  and,  chancing  to  look  at  his 
window,  lifted  their  hats  in  passhig.  A  sudden  thought 
seemed  to  flash  through  the  officer's  mind  as  he  saw  them, 
and,  seizing  his  hat,  he  started  out  after  them.  It  was 
young  McGrregor  and  Charley  Marsh,  and  he  speedily 
overtook  them. 

"  I  have  been  fitting  there  for  over  half  an  hour,"  he 
said,  taking  Charley's  other  arm,  familiarly,  "  watching 
society  go  by,  and  you  two  were  the  tii-st  I  knew.  Being 
tired  of  my  own  company,  I  thought  I  would  join  you. 
Have  a  cigar  ?" 

"  You  find  Speckport  rather  slow,  I  suppose  ?"   said 


TOO    a  ANY    IRONS    IN     THE    FIRE.  71 

Cliarley.  lighting  bis  weed.     "  I  sliould  m jself,  if  I  liad 
nothing  to  do." 

"  Oh,  I  am  used  to  it ;  and,"  with  a  droll  look,  "  I  have 
discovered  there  is  more  than  one  pill  to  kill  time,  even  in 
iSpeckport." 

"  Alreadj !  where  do  you  mean  ?" 

""  Prince  Street,  for  instance." 

Charley  laughed,  and  youn^  McGregor  smiled. 

"  You  go  there,  do  you  ?  Well,  I  have  lived  all  my  life 
in  Speckport,  but  I  have  never  set  foot  o-ver  the  threshold 
you  mean,  yet." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  young  McGregoi*.  ''  By  George,  wouldn't 
the  old  man  look  half-a-dozen  ways  at  once  if  he  thought 
I  would  dare  look  at  it  twice.'' 

There  was  a  smile  on  Captain  Cavendish's  face,  half 
of  amusement,  half  of  contempt. 

"  I  am  going  there  now,  and  was  about  asking  you  to 
accompany  me  for  an  hour's  amusement.  Come  on,  l>etter 
late  than  never." 

Charley  ln.^sitated,  coloring  and  laughing,  but  McGreg 
or  caught  at  the  invitation  at  once. 

"  1  say.  Marsh,  let  us  go  !  I've  always  wanted  to  go 
there,  but  never  had  a  chance  without  the  governor  find- 
ing it  out,  and  kicking  up  the  deuce  of  a  row !" 

"I  have  the  entree,"  said  Captain  Cavendish ;  "no  one 
will  be  the  wiser,  and  if  they  should,  what  matter  'i  It  is 
only  to  kill  time,  after  all." 

But  still  Charley  hesitated,  half  laughing,  half  tempt- 
ed, half  reluctant.  "  That  is  all  very  well  from  Captain 
Cavendish,  nephew  of  a  baronet,  and  with  more  money 
than  he  knows  what  to  do  with;  but  it's  of  no  use  going 
to  that  place  with  empty  pockets,  and  medical  students,  it 
is  proverbial,  never  liave  anything  to  spare.  No,  1  think 
you  must  hold  me  excused." 

"  Oh,  confound  it,  Charley,"  exclaimed  McGregor, 
isnpatiently,  "  I'll  lend  you  whatever  you  want.  Fetch 
him  along,  captain ;  what  he  says  is  only  gammon." 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  cynical  smile, 
"  Mr.  Marsh  has  conscientioas  scruples — some  people  have, 
I  am  told.    If  80- ^" 


72  TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    THE    FIRE. 

He  did  not  finisli  the  sentence,  but  the  smile  deepened. 
That  mocking  smile  did  more  to  overthrow  Charley's  reso- 
lution than  any  words  could  have  done.  He  turned  at 
once  in  the  direction  of  Prince  Street :  "  The  only  scruples 
I  know  anything  about  relate  to  weights  and  measures, 
and  I  believe  these  are  in  a  dram.  I  have  a  couple  of  hours 
before  dinner ;  so  until  then,  I  am  at  your  service,  captain." 

The  trio  turned  into  Prince  Street — a  quiet  street,  with 
staid  rows  of  white  houses,  and  only  one  of  any  pretension, 
at  one  of  its  quiet  corners.  Captain  Cavendish  ran  up 
the  steps,  with  the  air  of  a  man  perfectly  at  home,  opened 
the  outer  door  and  rang  the  bell.  There  were  few  people 
passing,  but  Charley  and  McGregor  glanced  uneasily 
about  them,  before  going  in,  and  closed  the  street  door 
after  them  with  some  precipitation. 

Cliarley  had  told  tlie  captain  he  was  at  his  service  for 
two  hours,  but  over  four  passed  before  the  three  issued 
forth  again.  Charley  looked  flushed,  excited,  and  in  high 
spirits,  so  did  Alick  McGregor ;  but  Captain  Cavendish, 
though  laughing,  was  a  trifle  serious,  too,  "  I  had  no  i(.!e;i 
you  were  such  an  adept,  Mr.  Marsh,"  he  was  saving,  "  but 
you  must  give  me  my  revenge.     Better  Inck  next  time."* 

"  All  right,"  said  Charley,  in  liis  boyish  way,  "  whenever 
you  like,  now  that  the  ice  is  broken.  What  do  3'ou  say, 
Mac?" 

"  I'm  your  man.  The  sooner  the  Ijetter,  as  I  intend 
keeping  on  until  I  make  a  fortune  on  my  own  account. 
Would  not  the  governor  stare  if  he  knevv'  the  pile  I  made 
this  morning." 

As  they  passed  into  Queen  Street,  the  town  clock 
struck  three.     Charley  looked  aghast. 

"  Three  o'clock !  I  had  no  idea  it  was  two.  Won't 
they  be  wondering  what  has  become  of  me  at  home.  I 
feel  as  though  I  should  like  my  dinner." 

"  Dine  with  me,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  I  ordered  din- 
ner at  half-past  three,  and  we  will  be  in  the  nick  of 
time." 

The  two  young  Speckportians  accepted  the  invitation, 
and  the  three  went  up  crowded  Queen  Street  together. 

Streaming  down  among  the  crowd  came  Miss  Cherrie 


TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    TEE    FIRE.  73 

Kettleby.  One  kid-gloved  liand  uplifted  her  silken  robe, 
and  displayed  an  elaborately  embroidered  under-skirt  to 
tlie  admiring  beholder ;  the  other  poised  a  blue  parasol ; 
and,  gorgeous  to  behold,  Miss  Kettleby  flashed  like  a 
meteor  through  Speckport.  All  the  men  spoke  to  her — 
all  the  Tvomen  turned  up  their  fair  noses  and  sailed  by  in 
dolicate  disdain.     Charley  blushed  vividly  at  sight  of  her. 

"Don't  blush,  Charley,"  drawled  young  McGregor, 
"  it's  too  young-lady-like,  but  I  suppose  you  can't  help  it 
any  more  than  you  can  being  in  love  with  her.  Good 
afternoon,  Miss  Cheme." 

Miss  Cherrie  smiled  graciously,  made  them  a  bow  that 
ballooned  her  silk  skirt  over  the  whole  sidewalk,  and  sailed 
oil.  Charley  looked  as  if  he  should  like  to  folloAV  her,  but 
that  was  next  to  impossible,  so  he  walked  on. 

"  Cherrie  comes  out  to  show  herself  every  afternoon," 
explained  AKck ;  "  you  don't  know  her.  Captain  Caven- 
disli,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  her  before,  I  think.    A  very  pretty  girl." 

"  Charley  thinks  so — don't  you,  old  fellow  ?  Half  the 
young  men  in  the  town  are  looney  about  her." 

"I  must  mate  her  acquaintance,  then,"  said  Captain 
Cavendish,  running  up  the  hotel  steps.  "  The  girl  that 
all  are  praising  is  just  the  girl  for  me.  This  way,  gentle- 
men." 

While  the  triad  sat  over  their  dinner  and  dessert.  Miss 
Nettleby  did  her  shopping — that  is,  she  chatted  with  the 
good-looking  clerks  over  the  counter,  and  swept  past  the 
old  and  ugly  ones  in  silent  contempt.  Cherrie  was  in  no 
hurry  ;  she  had  made  up  her  mind  before  starting  to  go 
through  every  drygoods  store  in  Speckport,  and  kept  her 
word.  It  was  growing  dusk  when  the  dress  was  finally 
bought,  cut  olf,  and  paid  for — a  bright  pink  ground,  with 
a  brighter  pink  sprig  running  through  it. 

"Shall  we  send  it.  Miss  Nettleby?"  insinuated  the 
gentlemanly  clerk,  tying  it  up  with  his  most  fascinating 
smile. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Cherrie,  shaking  out  her  skirte  with 
an  air ;  "  Mr.  Nettleby's,  Redmou  Koad.  Good  eveniag, 
Mr.  Johnston." 


74  TOO    MANY    IMONS    IN    TEE    FIRE. 

Cheme  was  soliloquizing  as  she  gained  the  street. 

"  Now,  I  do  wonder  if  he'll  be  home.  They  hare  tea 
at  six,  I  know,  and  it's  only  a  quarter  to  six,  now.  I  can 
say  I  want  a  book,  and  he'll  be  sure  ta  come  home  with 
^me.     I  must  see  that  new  teacher." 

^  Walking  veiy  fast  Cherrie  reached  Cottage  Street  as 
•the  clocks  of  Speckport  were  <!himing  six,  and  the  laborers' 
bfills  riuginw  their  dismissal.  Catty  Clowrie  was  standing 
in  her  own  doorway,  but  Cherrie  did  not  stop  to  speak,  only 
nodded,  and  Icnocked  at  Mrs.  Marsh's  door.  Betsy  Ann 
opened  it  and  Cherrie  walked  into  the  sitting-room,  where 
a  lire  burned,  warm  as  the  afternoon  had  been,  and  Mrs. 
Marsh,  with  a  shawl  about  her  and  a  novel  in  her  hand, 
swayed  to  and  fro  in  her  rocking-chair.  Miss  Rose  in  the 
parlor  was  trying  her  new  piano,  which  Natty  had  orderetl 
that  morning,  and  wliicli  had  just  come  home. 

"  Dear  me !"  said  Mrs.  Mai-sh,  looking  up  from  tlie 
book  and  holding  out  her  hand,  "  is  it  you,  Cherrie  'i  How 
do  you  do  ?     Sit  down." 

Cherrie  did  so. 
.  "  I've  been  out  all  the  afternoon  shopping  for  Miss 
Natty,  and  I  thought  I  would  call  here  before  I  went 
home  to  ask  you  for  another,  book.     That  last  one  was 
real  nice." 

"  Of  course.     What  were  you  buying  for  Natty  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  only  a  calico  dress  for  Midge ;  it's  being 
sent  up.     Mrs.  Mai-sh,  who's  that  playing  the  piano  ?" 

"  That's  Miss  Rose,  Natty's  teacher.  Have  you  seen 
her  yet?" 

"  No.     How  nice  she  plays.     Don't  she  ?" 

"  She  plays  very  well.  And  so  you  liked  that  last 
book — what's  this  it  was — *  Regina,'  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  and  oh,  it  was  lovely.     That 
^  carl  \v;*s  so  nice,  and  I  liked  Regina,  too.     What's  that  i 
you're  reading  ?" 

''This  is  'Queechy' — a  very  good  story.      Did  yoiA 
ever  read  '  Tlie  LampHghter  V  I'll  lend  you  that." 

"  Thank  yon,  ma'am,"  said  Cherrie.  "  It's  getting  latt- 
I  suppose  1  must  go." 

"  Stay  for  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Marsh,  who  liked  Cherrie  ,* 


TOO    MANY    IRO^^S    IN    THE    FIRE.  75 

"  it's  all  ready,  and  we  are  only  waiting  for  Charley.  I 
don't  see  where  he's  gone  too';  he  wasn't  home  to  dinner, 
either." 

"  I  saw  him  this  afternoon,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  hira  and 
young  McGregor  and  Captain  Cavendish  were  going  up 
Queen  Street." 

"  Was  he?  Perhaps  they  had  dinner  together  thera 
How  did  you  know  Captain  Cavendish,  Cherrie?" 

"  I  saw  him  at  liedmon.  He  was  up  all  yesterday 
forenoon.     I  guess  he  is  after  Miss  Natty." 

Mi's.  Marsh  smiled  and  settled  her  cap. 

''  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Take  off  your  things,  Cherrie, 
and  stay  for  tea.  It's  of  no  use  waiting  for  Charley.  Betsy 
Ann,  bring  us  the  teapot,  and  call  Miss  Rose." 

Cherrie  laid  aside  her  turban  and  lace,  and  was  duly 
made  acquainted  with  Miss  Rose.  Cherrie  had  heard  the 
new  teacher  was  pretty,  but  she  had  hoped  she  was  not  so 
very  pretty  as  this,  and  a  pang  of  jealousy  went  through  her 
vain  little  heart.  She  had  stayed  for  tea,  hoping  Charley 
would  partake  of  that  repast  with  them,  and  afterward 
escort  her  home ;  but  it  commenced  and  was  over,  but 
that  young  gentieman  did  not  appear. 

Miss  Rose  played  after  tea,  and  Cherrie  lingered  and 
lingered,  under  pretense  of  being  charmed ;  but  it  got 
dark,  and  still  that  provoking  Charley  did  not  come. 
Cherrie  could  wait  no  longer,  and  a  little  cross  and  a  good 
deal  disappointed,  slie  arose  to  go. 

"  You  will  perish  in  that  lace  mantle,"  said  Miss  Rose, 
kindly.  "  You  had  better  wear  my  shawl ;  these  spring 
niglits  are  chilly." 

Cherrie  accepted  the  offer,  rolled  her  lace  up  in  a  copy 
of  the  "  Speck])ort  Spoutcr,"  and  started  on  her  homeward 
journey.  The  street  lamps  were  lit,  the  shop  windows 
ablaze  with  illumination,  and  the  cold,  keen  stars  wero 
cleaving  sharp  and  chill  througii  tlic  bine  concave  above. 
A  pale  young  crescent  moon  shone  serene  in  their  midst, 
but  it  might  have  been  an  old  oil-lamp  for  all  Miss  Nettlcby 
cared,  in  her  present  irate  and  vexed  frame  of  mind.  But . 
there  was  balm  in  Gilead ;  a  step  was  behind  her,  a  man's 
step,  lirm  and  quick ;  a  tall  form  was  making  rapid  head- 


76  TOO    MAIfF    IRONS    m    TEE    FIBB. 

way  in  her  direction.  Clierrie  looked  behind,  half  fright- 
ened, but  there  was  no  mistaking  that  commanding  pres- 
ence, that  military  stride,  in  the  handsome  face  with  the 
thick  black  raustajhe,  looking  down  upon  her.  Cherrie'a 
heart  was  bounding,  but  how  was  he  to  know  that. 

"  I  knew  it  was  you,  Cherrie,"  he  said,  familiarly. 
"  A.re  you  not  afraid  to  take  so  long  and  lonely  a  walk  at 
this  hour  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Cherrie,  all  her  good  humor 
returning.  "  There  was  no  one  to  come  with  me.  I  was 
down  at  Mrs.  Marsh's,  and  Charley  wasn't  home." 

"  1  don't  want  you  to  go  to  Mi*s.  Marsh's,  and  I  am 
glad  Charley  wasn't  home." 

"  I  didn't  go  to  see  Charley,"  said  Cherrie,  cpquettish- 
ly.  "  I  wanted  a  book,  and  I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Rose. 
Do  you  know  where  Charley  is  2" 

"  He  is  up  at  Redmon." 

"  And  you  are  going  there,  too,  I  suppose." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  you  home,  just  now.  Let  me 
carry  that  parcel,  Cherrie,  and  don't  walk  so  fast.  There's 
no  hurry,  now  that  I  am  with  you.  Cherrie,  you  looked 
like  an  angel  this  afternoon,  in  Queen  Street." 

As  we  do  not  generally  picture  angelic  beings  in  shot 
silks  and  blue  parasols,  not  to  speak  of  turban  liats,  it  is 
to  be  presumed  Captain  Cavendish's  ideas  on  the  subject 
must  have  been  somewhat  vague.  Cherrie  obeyed  his 
injunction  not  to  hurry,  and  it  was  an  hour  before  they 
reached  the  cottage. 

Captain  Cavendish  declined  going  in,  but  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  opposite  the  house,  tattling  to  her 
for  another  half  hour,  then  shook  hands,  and  went  to  Lady 
Leroy's,  where  he  and  Charley  and  Mr.  Blake  were  to 
spend  the  evening. 

Val  and  Charley  were  there  before  Imn,  the  former 
having  but  just  entered.  The  captain  had  not  seen  Yal, 
but  val  had  seen  the  captain,  and  watched  him  now 
with  a  comical  look,  playing  the  devoted  to  Nathalie. 

In  Mrs.  Lei'oy's  mansion  there  was  no  lack  of  rooms 
— Natty  had  two  to  herself — sleeping-room  adjoining  tho 
old  lady's,  and  a  parlor  adjoining  that.     In  was  in  thia 


TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    THE    FIBE.  V 

parlor  N"atty  received  her  own  friends  and  visitors,  and 
there  the  three  gentlemen  were  now.  !N^atty's  rooms  were 
the  only  light  and  cheerful  ones  in  the  vast,  gloomy  old 
house,  and  ^atty  had  litted  them  up  afher  own  expense. 
Delicate  paper  on  the  walls  ;  pretty  drawings  and  land- 
scapes, in  water- colors,  the  work  of  her  own  artistic  lin- 
gers, hung  around  ;  a  lounge,  cushioned  in  chintz ;  an 
ai*m-chair,  cushioned  in  the  same ;  attractive  trifles  of  all 
sorts,  books,  a  work-table,  and  an  old  piano — made  the 
apartment  quite  pleasant  and  home-like.  The  only  thing 
it  wanted  was  a  tire ;  for  it  was  essentially  a  bleak  house, 
full  of  draughts — but  a  fire  in  any  room  save  her  own 
was  a  piece  of  extravagance  Lady  Leroy  would  not  hear 
of.  So  the  gentlemen  sat  in  their  overcoats ;  and  Lady 
Leroy,  who  had  been  wheeled  in,  in  her  arm-chair,  looked 
more  like  an  Egyptian  mumm}'  than  ever. 

Midge  sat  behind  her,  on  her  hunkers,  if  you  know 
what  that  is  ;  lier  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  between 
her  hands,  glai'ing  balefully  on  Captain  Cavendish,  mak- 
ing himself  fascinating  to  her  young  mistress.  If  that 
gallant  young  officer  had  over  heard  the  legend  of  the 
Evil  Eye,  he  njight  have  thought  of  it  then,  with  Midge's 
malignant  regards  upon  him. 

Lady  Leroy,  who  dearly  loved  gossip,  was  chattering 
like  a  superannuated  magpie  to  Val  and  Charley.  Mr. 
Blake  was  giving  her  what  he  knew  of  the  captain's 
history. 

"ills  uncle,"  said  Yal,  "is  a  baronet — a  Yorkshire 
baronet  at  that — and  Captain  Cavendish  is  next  heir  to 
the  title.  Meantime,  he  has  nothing  but  his  pay,  which 
would  be  enough  for  any  reasonable  man,  but  isn't  a  tithe 
to  him." 

"  And  he  wants  a  rich  wife,"  said  Lady  Leroy,  with  a 
spiteful  glance  over  at  him.  "  Ah  1  I  see  what  he's  com- 
ing after.     Natty !" 

"Ma'am!"  said  Katty,  looking  up,  and  still  laugli- 
ing  at  some  anecdote  Captain  Cavendish  had  been  re- 
lating. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  she  said,  sharply. 


78  TOO    MANY   IRONS    IN    THE   FIRE. 

"  Only  at  a  story  I  have  been  listening  to  1  Do  you 
want  any  tiling  ?" 

"  Yes.     Go  into  my  room  and  see  what  time  it  is." 

"  We  bring  Time  with  us,"  said  Mr.  B'ake,  producing 
a  watch  as  big  as  a  small  football ;  "  it's  live  minutes  to 
nine." 

"  Then  it's  my  bedtime !  Natty,  go  and  make  me  my 
punch.  Midge,  wheel  me  in,  and  warm  the  bed.  Young 
men,  it's  time  for  you  to  go." 

Captain   Cavendish  and   Val  exchanged  an  amused 

fiance  and  arose.     Charley  stepped  forward  and  laid  his 
and  on  the  arm-chair. 

"  I'll  wheel  you  in,  Mrs.  Leroy.  Stand  clear.  Midge, 
or  the  train  will  run  into  you.  Go  ahead,  fellows,  I'll  be 
after  you." 

"  You  must  not  mind  Mrs.  Leroy's  eccentricities,  you 
know,"  said  Natty,  sliaking  hands  shyly  and  wistfully  at 
the  front  door  with  the  captain.  "  Mr.  Blake  is  quite 
used  to  it,  and  thuiks  nothing  of  it." 

"  Think  better  of  me.  Miss  Marsh.  I  do  not  mind 
her  bmsqueness  any  more  than  he  does ;  in  proof  whereof 
I  shall  speedily  pay  my  respects  at  Redmon  again.  Good 
night  1" 

"  Tell  Cliarley  to  overtake  us.  Good  night.  Natty  !" 
called  Val,  striding  down  the  moon-lit  avenue,  and  out 
into  the  road. 

Captain  Cavendish  Ht  a  cigar,  handed  another  to  his 
companion,  took  his  arm  and  walked  along,  thinking. 
The  Nettleby  cottage  was  in  a  state  of  illumination,  as 
they  passed  it ;  and  the  shrieks  of  an  accordion,  atrociously 
played,  and  somebody  singing  a  totally  different  air,  and 
shouts  of  laughter,  mingling  together,  came  noisily  to 
their  listening  ears.     Val  nodded  toward  it. 

"  Cherrie  holds  a  levee  every  night — the  house  is  full 
now.  Will  you  come  in  ?  '  All  the  more  the  merrier,'  is 
the  motto  there." 

"No,"  said  the  captain,  shrinking  f Jistidiously ; 
"I  have  no  fancy  for  making  one  in,  Miss  Cherrie's 
menagerie." 


TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    THE    FIRE.  7d 

"  Does  the  objection  extend  to  Miss  Clierrie  herself  8'- 
aaked  Mr.  Blake,  pnffing  energetically, 

"  What  do  I  know  of  Miss  Cherrie  ?" 

"Can't  say,  only  I  should  suppose  you  found  out 
something  while  seeing  her  home  an  hour  ago,  and  stand- 
ing making  love  to  her  under  the  trees  afterward." 

Captain  Cavendish  took  out  his  cigar  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  Where  were  you  ?" 

"  Coming  through  the  rye — I  mean  the  fields.  The 
next  time  you  try  it  on,  take  a  more  secluded  spot,  my 
dear  fellow,  than  the  queen's  highroad !" 

"Oh,. hang  it!"  exclaimed  the  young  officer,  impa- 
tiently ;  "  it  seems  to  me,  Blake,  you  see  more  than  you 
have  any  business  to  do.  Su])pose  I  did  talk  to  the  little 
girl.  I  met  her  on  the  road  alone.  Could  I  do  less  than 
escort  her  home  ?" 

"  Look  here,"  said  Yal,  "  there  is  an  old  saymg,  '  If 
you  have  too  many  irons  in  the  fire,  some  of  them  must 
cool.'  Now,  that's  your  case  exactly.  You  have  too 
many  irons  in  the  tire." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Don't  you  ?  Here  it  is,  then !  This  morning,  bright 
and  early,  I  saw  you  promenading  the  shore  with  Miss 
Rose.  This  evening,  I  saw  you  making  up  to  Cherrie 
"Nettleby ;  and,  ten  minutes  ago,  you  were  as  sweet  as 
sugar-candy  on  Natty  Marsh.  No  man  can  be  in  love 
witli  three  women  at  once,  without  getting  into  trouble. 
Therefore,  take  a  friend's  advice,  and  drop  two  of  them." 

"  AVhich  two  ?" 

"  That's  your  affair.     Please  yourself." 

"  Precisely  what  I  mean  to  do ;  and  now,  Val,  old 
boy,  kee}>  your  own  counsel ;  there's  no  harm  done,  and 
there  will  be  none.  A  man  cannot  help  being  polite  to 
a  pretty  girl — it's  nature,  you  know ;  and,  dear  old  fellow, 
don't  see  so  much,  if  you  can  help  it.  It  is  rather  an- 
noying, and  will  do  neither  of  us  any  good." 

Perhaps  Captain  Cavendish  would  have  been  still 
more  annoyed  had  he  known  Val  was  not  the  only  witness 
of  that  little  flirtation  with  Cherrie.     As  that  young  lady, 


80  TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    THE    FIRE. 

when  he  left  her,  after  watching  him  out  of  si^ht,  was 
about  crossing  the  road  to  go  into  the  house,  a  voice  sud- 
denly called,  "  Hallo,  Cherrie !     How  are  you  ?" 

Cherrie  looked  up  greatly  astonished,  for  the  voice 
carae  from  above  her  head.  Was  it  the  voice  of  a  spirit  i 
— if  so,  the  spirit  must  have  a  shocking  bad  cold  in  the 
head,  and  inclined  to  over-familiarity  at  that.  The  voice 
came  again,  and  still  from  above. 

"  I  say,  Cherrie !  You  put  in  a  pretty  long  stretch  of 
courting  that  time !  I  hke  to  see  you  cutting  out  the  rest 
of  the  Speckport  girls,  and  getting  that  military  swell  all 
to  yourself." 

Cherrie  beheld  the  speaker  at  last ;  and  a  very  sub- 
stantial spirit  he  was,  perched  up  on  a  very  high  branch 
of  a  tree,  his  legs  dangling  about  in  the  atmosphere,  and 
his  hands  stuck  in  his  trowsers. 

"Lor!"  cried  Miss  Nettleby,  quite  startled,  "if  it 
ain't  that  Bill  Blair !     I  declare  1  took  it  for  a  ghost !" 

Bill  kicked  his  heels  about  in  an  ecstasy, 

"  Oh,  crickey  !  Wasn't  it  prime !  I  ain't  heard  any- 
thing like  it  this  month  of  Sundays.  Can't  he  keep 
company  stunning,  Cherrie?  I  say,  Chai'ley's  dished, 
ain't  he,  Cherrie  ?" 

"  How  long  have  you  been  up  there,  you  young  imp  V^ 
asked  Cherrie,  her  wrath  rising. 

"  Long  enongh  to  hear  every  word  of  it !  Don't  be 
mad,  Cherrie — Oh,  no,  I  never  mentions  it,  its  name  is 
never  heard — honor  bright,  you  know.'' 

"Oh,  if  I  had  you  here,"  cried  Miss  Nettleby, 
looking  viciously  up  at  him,  "  wouldn't  I  box  your  ears 
for  you!" 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't  1"  said  Bill,  swinging  about. 
"  How  was  I  to  know  when  I  roosted  up  here  that  you 
were  going  to  take  a  whack  at  courting  over  there.  1 
was  going  over  to  Jim  Tod's,  and,  feeling  tired,  I  got  up 
here  to  rest.  I  say,  Cherrie  ?  would  you  like  to  hear  a 
secret  V^ 

Cherrie  would  like  nothing  better,  only  before  he  told 
it,  she  would  rather  he  got  down.     It  gave  her  the 


TOO    MANY    IRONS    IN    THE    FIBB.  81 

fidgets  to  look  at  him  up  there.    Bill  got  lazily  down 
accordingly. 

"  Kow,  what's  the  secret  ?"  asked  the  young  lady. 

"  It's  this,"  replied  the  young  gentleman.  "  Do  you 
know  who  Captain  Cavendish  happens  to  be  ?" 

"I  know  he's  an  Englishman,"  said  Cherrie;  "all  the 
oiHcers  are  that." 

"  Yes;  but  you  don't  know  who  his  folks  are,  I  bet.'* 

"  No.     Who  are  they  ?     Very  rich,  I  suppcee  ?" 

"  Rich !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Blair,  contemptuously.  "  I 
Bay,  Cherrie,  you  won't  tell,  will  you?    It's  a  secret." 

''  Of  course  not,  stupid.     Go  on." 

"Say,  'pon  your  wurd  and  honor." 

"  'Pon  my  word  !     Isow  go  on." 

"  Well,  tlien,"  said  Bill,  in  a  mysterious  whisper,  "  he's 
— Qneen  Victoria's — eldest — son !" 

"  What !" 

"  I  told  you  it  was  a  secret,  and  it  is.  1  heard  him 
telling  ray  boss — Blake,  you  know,  and  they  didn't  tliink 
I  was  listening.  Queen  Victoria,  when  she  was  a  young 
woman,  was  married  secretly  to  a  duke,  the  Duke  of 
Cavendish,  and  had  one  son.  When  her  folks  found  it 
out — jiniminy !  wasn't  there  a  row,  and  the  DuivC  was 
beheaded  for  high  treason,  and  she  was  married  to  Prince 
Albert.     Now,  you'll  never  tell,  will  you,  Cherrie  f ' 

"  Never !"  answered  Cherrie,  breathlessly.     "  Well  ?" 

"Well,  Captain  Caventiish  was  brought  up  private, 
and  is  the  right  heir  to  the  throne ;  and  he  expects  his 
mother  to  leave  it  to  hiai  in  her  will  when  she  dies, 
instead  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Now,  if  he  marries  you, 
Chen'ie,  and  I  am  pretty  sure  he  will  before  long — then 
you  are  ■Queen  of  li<ngland  at  once." 

"  Now,  Billy  Blair,"  said  Cherrie,  puzzled  whether 
to  believe  his  solemn  face  or  not,  "  J  do  believe  you're 
telling  lies." 

"It's  true  as  preaching,  I  tell  you.  Didn't  1  hear 
'em  with  my  own  ears.  That  chap's  sure  to  be  lung  of 
England  some  day,  and  when  you're  queen,  Cherrie,  send 
for  Bill  Blair  to  be  your  prime-muiister.  And  now  1 
.aust  r;o — good  night." 
4* 


83  YAL    TURNS    MENTOB, 

CHAPTER  ym. 

VAL  TUENS  MENTOE 

ISS  NATHALIE  MARSH  was  not  the  only 
person  in  existence  who  took  a  violent  fancy 
to  the  pretty,  pale  little  school-mistress,  Miss 
Rose.  Before  the  end  of  the  month.  Speck- 
port  pronounced  her  perfection  ;  though,  to  do 
Speckport  justice,  it  was  not  greatly  given  to  overpraise. 
Indeed,  it  was  a  common  saying  with  the  inhabitants  that 
Speckport  would  find  fault  with  an  archangel,  did  one 
of  these  celestial  spirits  think  fit  to  alight  there,  and  the 
very  person  most  vehement  in  this  assertion  would  have 
been  the  first  in  the  backbiting.  Yet  Speckport  praised 
Miss  Rose,  and  said  their  Johnnys  and  Marys  had  never 
get  on  so  fast  in  their  A  B  abs,  before,  and  the  little  ones 
themselves  chanted  her  praises  with  all  their  hearts.  If 
she  appeared  in  the  streets,  they  rushed  headlong  to  meet 
her,  sure  of  a  smile  for  their  pains.  They  brought  her 
flowers  every  morning,  and  a  reproachful  look  was  the 
severest  punishment  known  in  the  schoolroom.  The  old 
women  dropped  their  courtesies  ;  the  old  men  pronounced 
her  the  nicest  young  woman  they  had  seen  for  many  a 
day,  and  the  young  men — poor  things !  fell  in  love. 

Theie  was  some  one^else  winning  golden  opinions,  but 
not  from  all  sorts  of  people.  Only  from  young  ladies, 
who  were  ready  to  tear  each  other's  dear  little  eyes  out,  if 
it  could  have  helped  the  matter :  and  the  man  was  Captain 
George  Cavendish.  Speckport  was  proud  to  have  him  at 
its  parties ;  for  was  he  not  to  be  a  baronet  some  day  ?  and 
was  his  family  in  England,  their  Alma  Mater,  not  as  old 
as  the  hills,  and  older  ?  But  he  was  an  expensive  luxury. 
Their  daughters  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  their  sons 
spent  their  money  frightfully  fast  with  him  ;  and  all  sons 
or  daughters  got  in  return  were  fascinating  smiles,  courtly 
bows,  and  gallant  speeches.     Ue  was  not  a  marrying  man, 


VAL    TURNS    MENTOR.  88 

that  was  evident ;  and  yet  he  did  seem  rather  serious  with 
Nathalie  Marsh.  Miss  Marsh  was  the  handsomest  girl  in 
Speckport ;  she  would  be  the  richest,  and  she  was  foi 
certain  the  only  one  that  ever  had  a  grandfather — that  is, 
to  speak  of :  in  the  course  of  nature  they  all  had,  perhaps ; 
but  the  grandfathers  were  less  than  nobody — peddlers,  rag- 
men, and  fish-hawkers.  But  her  father  and  grandfather 
had  been  gentlemen  born ;  and  it  is  well  to  have  good 
blood  in  one's  veins,  even  on  one  side.  So  the  young 
ladies  hated  Miss  Marsh,  and  were  jealous  of  each  other ; 
and  that  high-stepping  young  heiress  laughed  in  their 
face,  and  walked  and  talked,  and  rode  and  sailed,  and 
sang  and  danced  with  Captain  Cavendish,  and  triumphed 
over  them  like  a  princess  born. 

It  was  June,  and  very  hot.  Speckport  was  being 
grilled  alive,  and  the  dust  liew  in  choking  simooms. 

Cool  through  all  the  heat.  Captain  Cavendish  walked 
up  Queen  Street  in  the  broiling  noonday  sun.  Charley 
Marsh  and  Alick  McGregor  walked  on  either  side  of  him, 
like  that  other  day  on  which  tliey  had  met  Cherrie;  and 
Charley's  face  was  flushed  and  clouded,  and  young 
McGregor's  drawn  down  to  a  most  lugubrious  length. 
They  had  just  come  from  Prince  Street — an  every-day 
resort  now ;  and  Charley  and  McGregoi*  seldom  left  it  of 
that  late  without  clouded  expression.  Captain  Cavendish, 
was  laughing  at  them  both. 

"  All  in  the  downs !"  he  cried ;  "  nonsense,  Marsh. 
One  would  think  you  were  ruined  for  life." 

"I  soon  shall  be  at  this  rate.  I  owe  you  a  small 
fortune  now." 

"  Only  fifty  pounds,"  said  the  captain,  as  carelessly  as 
if  it  were  fifty  pence,  "  a  mere  trifle." 

"And  1  owe  you  twice  as  miich,"  said  young  Mc- 
Gregor, with  a  sort  of  groan  ;  "  won't  there  be  the  dickens 
to  pay  when  it's  found  out  at  home." 

"  Don't  let  them  And  it  out,  then,"  said  Captain  Caven- 
dish, in  the  same  off-hand  manner. 

"  That's  easily  said.    How  am  I  to  help  it  ?" 

"  Yom-  father  has  a  check-book — help  yourself." 

"  That  would  be  killing  the  goose  that  lays  the  golden 


84  VAL    TURNS    MENTOR. 

eggs,"  said  Charley.  "  Let  the  old  man  find  that  out  and 
good-bye  to  Aleck's  chance  of  ever  seeing  Prince  Street 
again.  Here  are  my  quai'ters — no  use  asking  you  in  to 
hoar  the  row  old  Leach  will  make  at  my  delay,  I  sup- 
pose." 

He  nodded,  with  his  own  careless  laugh,  iz,  i  entered 
the  office  of  Doctor , Leach,  Captain  Cavendish  looked  at 
ills  watch. 

"  Half-past  eleven  !  I  believe  I  owe  your  people  a 
call,  McGregor ;  so  en  avant .'" 

Miss  Jeamiette  McGregor  was  at  home,  and  received 
the  captain  and  her  brother  in  her  boudoir,  a  charm  iug 
little  room,  with  velvet-pile  carpet,  gilding,  and  ormolu, 
and  medallion  pictures  of  celebrated  beauties  set  in  the 
oval  paneled  walls.  A  copy  of  Longfellow,  all  gold  and 
azure,  was  in  her  hand  ;  she  had  once  heard  Captain  Caven- 
dish express  his  admiration  of  the  great  American  poet ; 
and  having  seen  her  brother  and  he  coming  up  the  front 
steps,  she  had  arranged  this  little  tableau  expressly  for  the 
occasion.  If  there  was  one  young  lady  in  all  Speckpoi't  who 
more  than  another  sincerely  hated  Nathahe  Marsh,  or  more 
sincerely  admired  Captain  Cavendish,  that  one  was  Miss 
McGregor.  She  had  long  been  jealous  of  Natty's  beauty, 
but  now  she  deteste^  her  with  an  honest  earnestness  that, 
I  think,  only  women  ever  feel.  She  kissed  her  whenever 
they  met ;  she  invited  her  to  every  party  they  gave ;  she 
made  calk  at  Redmon :  and  she  hated  her  all  the  time, 
and  could  have  seen  her  laid  in  her  coffin  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  It  is  a  very  common  case,  my  brethren ;  Judas 
Iscariot  Avas  not  a  woman,  but  kisses  after  his  fashion  are 
very  popular  among  the  gentler  sex. 

"Evangeline,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  takin^  up  her 
book ;  "  I  always  liked  that,  but  never  half  so  well  as  since 
I  came  to  Speckport." 

"  Because  you  saw  Miss  Marsh  in  the  character,"  said 
Jeannette,  laughing,  as  young  ladies  must,  in  these  cases. 

"  Miss  Marsh  took  her  character  very  veil,  but  that  is 
not  the  only  reason  why  I  shall  long  remember  that 
night." 

A  glance  accompanied  this  speech  that  brought  a  glow 


VAL     TUENS    MENTOR.  85 

to  Miss  McGregor's  cheek  and  a  flutter  to  her  heart. 
Captain  Cavendisli  was  a  clever  man.  He  had  more  irons 
it)  the  lire  than  even  Val  knew  of,  and  allowed  none  of 
them  to  cool ;  and  it  does  take  a  clever  man  to  make  love 
discreetly  to  half-a-dozen  women  at  once, 

"  Natty  looked  stnnninfjf  that  night,"  put  in  Aleck  ; 
"  she  is  the  handsomest  girl  in  Speckport." 

"  You  think  so — we  all  know  that,"  said  Jeannette, 
flashing  a  spiteful  glance  at  him  ;  "you  have  heen  mak- 
ing a  simpleton  of  yourself  about  her  for  the  last  two 
years.     Why  don't  you  propose  at  once." 

"  Because  she  wouldn't  have  me,"  blurted  honest 
Alick  ;  "  I  wish  to  heaven  she  would  !  I  would  soon  do 
the  popping." 

"  Faint  lieart  never  won  fair  lady ;  take  courage  and 
try,"  said  the  captain. 

Jeannette  looked  at  him  with  her  most  taking  smile. 

"Are  you  quite  sincere  in  that,  Captain  Cavendish?" 

"Quite!     Why  not?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  Only  rumor  says  you  are  going  to 
carry  a  Blueuose  bride  back  to  Merrie  England." 

"  Perhaps  I  may.  You  are  a  Bluenose,  are  you  not. 
Miss  Jeannette  ?" 

Before  Jeannette  could  answer,  a  sort  of  shout  from 
Alick,  who  was  at  the  window,  took  their  attention. 
Miss  McGregor  looked  languidly  over. 

"  Oh,  how  noisy  you  are  !     What  is  it,  pray  ?" 

The  door-bell  rang  loudly. 

"  It's  Natty  herself  and  Laura  Blair.  You  ought  to 
have  seen  Natty  driving  up,  captain  ;  she  handles  the 
ribbons  in  tiptop  style,  and  that  black  mare  of  Blair's  is 
no  joke  to  drive." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  the  door  opened,  and 
a  servant  showed  in  the  two  young  ladies.  Miss  Jean- 
nette sprang  up  mth  the  utmost  elfusion,  and  kissed  eacli 
on  both  cheeks. 

"  You  darling  Natty !  It  is  ages  since  you  were  here. 
Laura,  how  good  it  is  of  you  to  fetch  her !  for  I  know  it 
must  have  been  you." 

*'  So  it  was,"  said  Laura,  shaking  hands  with  Captain 


80  VAL     TURNS    MENTOR. 

(Javendish.  "  I  haven  t  time,  I  haven't  time,  is  always 
her  cry.  I  tell  her  there  will  be  time  when  we  are  all 
dead — won't  there,  captain  ?" 

"  I  presume  so,  unless  at  the  loss  of  Miss  Laura  Blair 
the  whole  economy  of  creation  blows  up  with  a  crash." 

"  And  so  you  see,"  said  Laura,  sitting  down  on  a 
chair,  and  flii'ting  out  her  skirts  all  around  lier,  "  I  drove 
up  to  Redmon  this  morning,  with  a  great  basketful  of 
English  strawberries  the  size  of  crab-apples,  as  a  coaxer  to 
Lady  Lcroy ;  and  through  their  eloquence,  and  the 
promise  of  another,  got  her  to  let  Natty  come  to  town 
with  me  on  business." 

"  On  business  ;"  said  Captain  Cavendish ;  "  that  means 
shopping." 

"  1^0,  sir,  it  doesn't ;  it  means  something  serious,  and 
that  you  must  take  share  in.  You,  too,  Jeannette,  and 
you,  Alick,  if  we  run  short." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alick,  "what  is  it?" 

"  Why,  you  know,"  began  Miss  Blair,  with  the  air 
of  one  about  entering  upon  a  story,  "  there's  that  Mrs. 
Hill — ^you  know  her,  Alick  ?" 

"What!  the  wife  of  the  pilot  who  was  drowned  in 
the  storm  last  week  ?" 

"  That's  the  one,"  nodded  Laura.  "  Well,  she's  poor 
— Oh,  dear  me  !  ever  so  poor,  and  her  two  children  down 
in  the  measles,  and  hereelf  half  dead  with  rheumatism.  I 
shouldn't  have  known  a  thing  about  it  only  for  Miss 
Rose.  I  do  declare  Miss  Rose  is  next  door  to  an  angel ; 
she  found  her  out,  and  did  lots  of  things  for  her,  and  told 
me  at  last  how  poor  she  was,  and  asked  me  to  send  her 
some  things.     So  then  I  made  up  this  plan." 

"  What  plan  ?"  inquired  Jeannette,  as  Laura  stopped 
for  want  of  breath,  and  Nathalie  sat  listening  with  an 
amused  look. 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you  ?  Why,  we're  going  to  have  a 
play,  and  every  one  of  us  turn  into  actors ;  admission, 
half  a  dollar.     Won't  it  be  grand  ?" 

"And  the  play  is  Laura's  own,"  said  Nathalie; 
"  nothing  less  than  the  adventures  of  Telemachus 
dramatized." 


VAL    TURN'S    MENTOR  87 

"  That  13  delightful,"  said  Jeannette,  with  sparkling 
cjes.     '•  Have  I  a  part,  Laura  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  and  so  has  Natty,  and  myseK,  and 
Captain  Cavendish,  and  Yal  Blake,  and  Charley  IVlarsh, 
and  as  many  more  as  we  want.  The  new  wing  that  pa 
has  built  to  our  house  is  just  finished,  and,  being  un- 
furnished, will  make  a  lovely  theater.  Only  a  select 
number  of  tickets  will  be  issued,  and  the  place  is  sure  to 
be  crowded.  The  proceeds  will  be  a  little  fortune  to 
Mi-s.  Hill." 

"  You  should  have  given  Miss  Eose  a  part,  as  she  was 
the  head  of  it,"  suggested  Alick. 

"  She  wouldn't  have  it.  I  tried  hard  enough,  but  she 
was  resolute.  She  is  such^  timid  little  thing,  you  know, 
and  she  would  make  a  lovely  nymph,  too." 

"  What  part  have  you  assigned  mo  ?"  inquired  Captain 
Cavendish. 

"  Being  a  soldier  and  a  hero,  you  are  Ulysses,  of 
course ;  Chai-ley  is  Telemachus  ;  Val  is  Mentor — fancy 
Val  with  flowing  white  hair  and  beard,  like  an  old  nanny- 

foat.  Jeannette,  you  will  be  Calypso ;  Natty  will  take 
lucharis ;  I,  Penelope.  I  wanted  Miss  Rose  to  be 
Eucharis — the  part  would  have  suited  her  so  well." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  would  come  natural  to  Charley  to 
make  love  to  her,"  said  Alick ;  "  he'U  have  to,  won't  he, 
if  he  is  Telemachus  ?" 

"  You  must  change  the  casts.  Miss  Blair,"  said  the 
captain,  decidedly.  "If  Telemachus  is  to  do  the  love- 
making,  I  must  be  Telemaehus.  Mr.  Marsh  and  I  must 
change." 

"  You  would  make  such  a  nice  Ulysses,"  said  Laura, 
meditatingly,  while  Nathalie  blushed ;  "  but  please  your- 
self. You  must  all  spend  the  evening  at  our  house,  and 
when  the  whole  dramatis  'personam  are  gathered,  we  can 
discuss  and  settle  the  thing  for  good,  fix  the  rehearsal  and 
the  night  of  the  play.     Don't  fail  to  come." 

"  You  need  not  be  in  a  hurry,"  said  Jeannette,  as  Laura 
rose  and  was  sailing  off  ;  "  stay  for  luncheon." 

"Couldn't  possibly — promised  to  leave  Natty  back 
«afe  and  sound  in  an  hour,  and  it  only  wants  ten  minutea 


88  VAL     TUIiNS    MENTOR. 

now.  If  we  fail  one  second,  slie  will  never  get  off  for 
rehearsals.  Remember,  jou  are  all  engaged  for  this 
evening." 

The  two  lo'ig  parlors- of  the  Blairs  were  pretty  well 
ill  led  that  night  with  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  a 
vci-y  gay  party  they  were.  There  was  so  much  laughing 
and  chaffing  over  it,  that  it  was  some  trouble  to  settle  pre- 
limiparies ;  but  Laura  was  intensely  in  earnest,  and  could 
see  nothing  to  laugh  at,  and  Captain  Cavendish  coming 
gallantly  to  her  aid,  matters  were  an-anged  at  last.  Charley 
Marsh,  who  was  a  Rubens  on  a  small  scale,  undertook  to 
paint  the  scenery,  superintend  the  carpenters  and  the 
machinery  of  the  stage.  The  young  ladies  arranged  the 
costumes ;  everybody  got  thefr  parts  in  MS. ;  rehearsals 
were  appointed,  and  some  time  before  midnight  the 
amateurs  dispei'sed.  In  the  June  moonlight,  the  English 
officer  drove  J^athalie  home,  and  it  was  not  all  theatricals 
they  talked  by  the  way.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  trouble 
about  the  thing  yet,  now  that  it  was  linally  started.  In 
the  first  place,  there  was  that  tiresome  Lady  Leroy,  who 
made  a  row  every  time  Natty  went  to  rehearsal,  and  re- 
quired lots  of  strawberries,  and  jellies,  and  bottles  of  old 
%vine,  to  bring  her  to  reason.  Then  they  bungled  so  in 
their  parts,  and  wanted  so  much  prompting,  and  Miss 
Elvira  Tod,  sister  to  the  Rev.  Augustus,  who  was  tall  and 
prim,  and  played  Minerva,  objected  to  wealing  a  tin  shield, 
and  wanted  to  keep  on  her  hoops. 

"  Now,  Miss  Tod,"  expostulated  Laura,  ready  to  cry, 
"  you  know  the  goddess  Minerva  always  is  painted  with  a 
breastplate,  to  conceal  her  want  of  a  bust ;  and  as  for  your 
skeleton,  you  would  be  a  nice  goddess  with  hoops — 
wouldn't  you?" 

On  the  whole,  things  progressed  as  favorably  as  could 
be  expected  ;  and  the  eventful  night  was  announced,  tick- 
ets were  issued  and  eagei-ly  bought,  and  Speckport  was  on 
the  qui  vive  for  the  great  event.  When  the  appointed 
night  came,  the  impromptu  theater  was  crowded  at  an 
early  hour,  and  with  nothing  but  the  upper-crust,  either ; 
the  militai-y  band,  which  formed  the  orchestra,  played  the 


VAL    TURNS    MENTOR.  8t 

"Nympli's  Dance"  ravisbingly,  and  amid  a  breatliless 
hiisli,  the  curtain  rose. 

Mrs.  Hill,  the  destitute  widow,  was  made  liappy  next 
day  by  some  twenty  pounds,  the  produce  of  the  plaj^,  and 
Speckport  could  talk  of  nothing  else  for  a  week.  The 
Speckjjort  Spouter  even  went  into  personalities.  "Miss 
]N'athalie  Marsh,"  that  journal  said,  "as  Eucharis,  aston- 
*■  islied  every  one.  The  tire,  the  energy,  the  ])athos  of  her 
acting  could  not  be  surpassed  by  the  greatest  professionals 
of  the  day.  Captain  Cavendish,  as  the  hero,  performed 
his  ]iart  to  the  lite — it  seemed  more  like  reality  than  mere 
acting;  and  Mr.  C.  Marsli  as  Ulysses,  and  Miss  Laura 
Blair  as  Penelope,  were  also  excellent." 

On  the  morning  after  this  laudatory  notice  appeared 
in  the  Sj^outer,  a  yoimg  gentleman,  one  of  the  employees 
of  that  otMce,  walked  slowly  along  Queen  Street,  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  coat-j)ockets,  his  cap  very  much  on  one 
side  of  his  head,  and  his  face  lengthened  to  preternatural 
solemnity.  The  young  gentleman  was  Bill  Blair;  and 
that  he  had  something  on  his  mind  was  evident,  for  his 
countenance  was  seriously,  not  to  say  dismally,  meditative. 
Reaching  the  otiice,  he  walked  deliberately  up-stairs,  en- 
tered the  outer  room,  swung  himself  nimbly  up  on  the 
handiest  stool,  and  began  flinging  his  legs  about,  without 
the  ceremony  of  removing  his  cap.  Mr.  Clowrie,  the 
only  other  occn]:)ant  of  the  apartment,  looked  at  him  over 
his  desk  with  a  frown. 

"I  thought  Mr.  Blake  told  you  to  be  here  at  half-past 
six  tliis  morning,  and  now  it's  a  quarter  past  eight,"  began 
Mr.  Clowrie ;  "  if  I  was  Blake,  I  would  turn  you  out  of 
the  office." 

"  But  you  ain't  Blake  !"  retorted  Master  Blair ;  "  so 
don't  ruffle  your  fine  feathers  for  nothing,  Jakey !  If  you 
liad  been  up  till  half-past  one  this  morning,  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  be  any  spryer  than  I  am." 

"  What  kept  you  up  till  that  time  ?  Some  devilment, 
ril  be  bound." 

"  No,  it  wasn't,"  said  Bill ;  "  our  folks,  the  whole 
crowd  but  me,  streaked  olf  to  the  theatre ;  so  as  I  couldn't 
see  the  fun  of  playing  liobinson  Crusoe  at  home,  I  just 


90  VAL    TURNS    MENTOR 

went  over  to  Jim  Tod's  to  have  a  game  of  all-fours,  and  a 
look  at  the  ])iips,  and  they're  growing  lovely.  I  didn't 
mean  to  stay  long,  but  some  of  the  rest  of  the  fellows 
"were  there,  and  Jim  had  a  box  of  cigars,  and  a  bottle  of 
sherry  he  had  cribbaged  cut  of  the  sideboard,  and  it  wai>  . 
all  so  jolly  I'll  be  blowed  if  it  didn't  strike  twelve  before 
we  knew  where  we  were." 

"  Well,  now  you've  come,  go  to  work,  or  there  will  be 
a  precious  row  when  the  boss  comes." 

"  Blake  won't  row,"  said  Bill,  nodding  mysteriously  ; 
"  but  I  know  where  there  will  be  one  before  long. 
Cracky,  won't  there  be  a  flare-up  when  it's  found  out !" 

Mr.  Clowrie  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked  up. 

"  When  what's  found  out  ?" 

"  That's  my  secret,"  rephed  BUI,  with  a  perfect  shower 
of  mysterious  nods.  "  1  saw  the  rummiest  go  last  night 
when  I  was  coming  home  ever  you  heard  tell  of." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Jake,  disdainfully  ;  "  you're 
always  finding  mare's-nests,  and  a  lot  they  come  to  when 
all's  done !" 

"  Jake,  look  here  I  you  won't  tell,  will  you  ?" 

"  Bosh  !   go  to  work.     What  should  I  tell  for  ?" 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Bill,  lowering  his  voice,  "  I've  found 
out  who  stole  that  hundred  pounds  froni  old  McGregor." 

"  What  ?" 

"  You  remember  that  hundred  pounds  old  McGregor 
had  stole  a  week  ago,  and  that  went  so  mysteriously  ? 
Well,  I've  found  out  who  took  it." 

"  You  have !"  cried  Mr.  Clowrie,  excited ;  "  why,  there's 
a  reward  of  fifty  doUars  out  for  the  thief !" 

Bill  nodded  again. 

"  I  know  it,  but  I  ain't  going  to  apply.  You  won't 
tell — honor  bright  1" 

"  I  won't  tell !  who  was  it  ?" 

"  Don't  faint  if  you  can !   It  was  his  own  son,  Alick !" 

"  Wha-a-t !" 

"I  teU  yoii  it  was ;  I  heard  him  say  so  myself,  last 
night." 

Mr.  Clowi'ie  sat  thuuderstruckj  staling.  Master  Blair 
went  on  : 


VAL     TURNS    MENTOH.  »1 

"  Charley  Marsli  is  in  the  mess  too — I  don't  mean 
about  the  money-stealing,  mind  !  but  him  and  Sandy  Mc- 
Gregor are  galloping  the  road  to  ruin  at  a  2.40  rate !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Bill  looked  round  as  if  fearful  the  very  walls  would 
hear  him. 

"  They  go  to  Piince  Street,  Jake !  I  met  them  coming 
out  of  a  certain  house  there  past  twelve  o'clock  last 
night !" 

"  By  ginger !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Clowrie,  aghast.  "  You 
never  mean  to  say  young  McGregor  stole  the  money  to 
gam — " 

"  Hu-sh-sh  !  I  wouldn't  have  it  found  out  through 
ine  for  the  world.  It's  all  the  work  of  that  dandiHed 
officer ;  he  was  with  them  in  a  long  overcoat,  but  I  knew 
him  the  minute  I  clapped  eyes  on  him.  They  were  talk- 
ing about  the  bank-note,  and  the  captain  was  laughing  and 
smoking  away  as  jolly  as  you  please  ;  but  i  saw  Charley's 
face  as  they  passed  a  gas-lamp,  and  I  swear  he  was  as 
white  as  a  ghost !" 

"  I  suppose  he'd  been  losing." 

"I  reckon  so,  and  Alick  didn't  look  much  better. 
That  captain's  a  regular  scape — he's  after  Cherrie  Nettle- 
by  as  regular  as  clock-work  now." 

Mr.  Clowrie  scowled  suddenly,  but  Bill  clattered  on: 

"  I  saw  him  twice  last  night ;  once  before  I  met  them 
in  Prince  Street.  It  was  about  nine,  and  Cherrie  was  with 
iiim.  There  the  two  of  them  were  standing,  like  Paul 
and  Virgiuny,  at  the  gate,  making  love  like  sixty !  That 
Cherrie's  the  preciousest  fool  that  ever  drew  breath,  I  do 
think.     Why  don't  you " 

He  stopped  short  in  consternation,  for  the  door  swung 
open  and  Val  strode  in,  and,  as  he  had  done  once  before, 
collared  him.  With  the  other  hand  he  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock  to  keep  out  intruders,  and  Bill  fairly  quaked,  for 
Yal's  face  looked  ominous. 

"  Now,  look  you.  Master  Bill  Blair,"  he  began,  in  a 
tone  exceedingly  in  earnest,  ''■  I  have  been  listening  out 
there  for  some  time,  and  I  have  just  got  this  to  say  to  you : 
if  ever  I  find  you  repeat  it  to  mortal  man  or  woman,  as 


92  VAL    TUBUS    MENTOR 

long  as  you  live,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  yonr  body  1   Do 
you  hear  tliat  ?" 

Yes,  Master  Bill  beard,  and  jerked  himself  free  with  a 
very  red  and  sulky  face. 

"  Don't  forget,  now !"  reiterated  Val ;  "  I'll  thrash  you 
within  an  inch  of  your  life,  as  sure  as  your  name's  iJill ! 
And  you,  Clowrie,  if  you  want  to  keep  yourself  out  of 
trouble,  take  my  advice  and  say  nothing  about  it.  Kow 
get  to  work,  you,  sir,  and  no  more  gossiping." 

Val  strode  off  to  his  own  room,  and  sat  down  to  look 
over  a  hie  of  exchanges,  and  read  his  lettei"s.  But  he 
could  neither  read  nor  do  anything  else  with  comfort  this 
morning.  The  boy's  gossip  had  distm-bed  him  more  than 
he  would  have  owned;  and  at  last,  in  desperation,  he, 
pitched  all  from  him,  seized  his  hat,  and  went  out. 

"  I  played  Mentor  the  other  night  on  the  stage.  I 
think  I'll  try  it  in  real  life.  Confound  that  Cavendish ; 
why  can't  he  let  the  boy  alone  ?  I  don't  mind  McGregor ; 
he's  only  a  noodle  at  best,  and  the  old  man  can  atford  to 
lose  the  moncv;  but  Charley's  another  story!  That 
Cherrie,  too !  I'he  fellow's  a  scoundrel,  and  she's  a — ! 
Oh,  here  she  comes  I" 

Sure  enough,  tripping  along,  her  blue  parasol  up,  her 
turban  on,  a  little  white  lace  vail  down,  a  black  silk  mantle 
flapping  in  the  breeze,  a  buffc"  calico  morning- wrapper,  with 
a  perfect  hailstorm  of  white  buttons  all  over  it,  sweeping 
the  dust,  came  Miss  ISTettlcby  herself,  arrayed  as  usual  for 
conquest.  The  incessant  smile,  ever  parting  her  rosy  lips, 
greeted  Val.  Cherrie  always  kept  a  large  assortment  of 
different  quality  on  hand  for  different  gentlemen.  Val 
greeted  her  and  turned. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Cherrie  ?" 

"  Down  to  Mrs.  Marsh's.  I've  got  a  book  of  hers  to 
return.    How's  Miss  Jo  V' 

"  She's  well.  I'll  walk  with  you,  Cherrie ;  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

His  tone  was  so  serious  that  Cherrie  stared. 

"  Lord,  Mr.  Blake  I   what  is  it  ?" 

"Let  us  go  down  this  street — it  is  quiet.    Cherrie, 


YAL     TURNS    MENTOR.  OS 

does  Captain  Cavendish  go  to  see  you  every  evening  in 
tiie  week  ?" 

"  Gracious  me,  Mr.  Blake !"  giggled  Cheiry,  "  what  a 
question !" 

"  Answer  it,  Cherrie." 

"  Xow,  Mr.  Blake,  I  never  I  if  you  ain't  the  oddest 
man  !   I  shan't  tell  you  a  thing  about  it !" 

"  He  was  with  you  last  night,  was  he  not  ?" 

"  It's  none  of  your  business !"  said  polite  Cherrie  ; 
"  he  has  as  much  right  to  be  with  me  as  any  one  else,  I 
hope.    You  come  yourself  sometimes,  for  that  matter." 

'•  Yes ;  but  I  don't  make  love  to  you,  you  know." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  any  use  for  you  if  you  did,"  said  Miss 
Cherrie,  bridling. 

" It's  a  diiierent  case  altogether,"  said  Val ;  "you  and 
I  are  old  friends — he  is  a  stranger." 

"  He's  not !  I've  known  him  more  than  five  weeks ! 
If  you  only  came  to  preach,  Mr,  Blake,  I  guess  you  had 
better  go  back,  and  I'll  find  Mrs.  Marsh's  alone." 

"  Cherrie,  I  want  to  warn  you — the  less  you  have  to 
do  with  Captain  Cavendish  the  better.  People  arc  talking 
about  you  now." 

"  Let  'em  talk,"  retorted  Miss  Nettleby,  loftily ;  "  when 
Speckport  stops  talking  the  world  will  come  to  an  end. 
I'll  just  do  as  I  please,  and  talk  to  whom  I  like  ;  and  if 
everybody  minded  their  own  business,  it  would  be  better 
for  sonie  folks," 

W  ith  which  the  young  lady  swept  away  majestically, 
leaving  Mr.  Blake  to  turn  back  or  follow  if  he  pleased. 
He  ehose  the  former,  and  walked  along  to  Dr.  Leach's 
otiice,  Charley  was  standing,  looldng  out  of  the  window, 
and  whistling  a  tune. 

"  Hallo,  V  al !"  was  his  greeting,  "  what  brings  you 
here  ?  Want  a  tooth  pulled,  or  a  little  bleeding,  or  a  trifle 
of  physic  of  any  kind  i  Happy  to  serve  you  in  the  ab- 
senco-  of  the  doctor." 

'*  Ko,  I  don't  want  any  physic,  but  I  have  come  to 
give  you  a  dose.     Ai'e  you  alone  V 

"Quite.  Leach  went  to  visit  a  patient  ten  minutes 
ago.     What's  the  matter '^"  — 


94  VAL     TUBN'S    MENTOR. 

"  Everything's  the  matter !  What's  this  I  hear  you 
havo  been  about  lately  ?" 

"  Turning  actor—do  you  mean  that  ?  Much  obliged 
tn  yon,  Tal,  for  the  piifiE  you  gave  me  in  yesterday's 
Spouter." 

"  1^0,  sir,  I  don't  mean  that !  Isn't  Alick  McGregor 
a  nice  fellow  to  rob  his  own  father  and  you  his  aider  and 
abettor  ?    Fine  doings  that !" 

Cliarley  fairly  bounded. 

"  Oh,  the  d !    Where  did  you  find  that  out  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  I  have  found  it  out ;  that  is  enough !" 

"  Is  it  known  ?     Who  else  knows  it  ?" 

"  Two  that  are  not  quite  so  safe  to  keep  it  as  I  am  I 
No,  I  won't  tell  you  who  they  are.  Charley,  what  are  you 
cominoj  to  ?" 

"  The  gallows,  I  suppose  ;  but  I  had  no  hand  in  that. 
If  McGregor  took  the  money,  it  was  his  own  doings,  and 
his  father  could  spare  it." 

"What  did  he  want  of  it  ?" 

"  Am  I  his  keeper  ?     How  should  I  know  ?" 

"You  do  know!  When  did  you  turn  gambler, 
Charley?" 

Charley  turned  round,  his  face  white. 

"  You  know  that,  too  ?" 

"  I  do !  McGregor  stole  the  hundred  pounds  to  pay  a 
gambling-debt  to  Captain  Cavendish.  And  you — where 
Qoes  your  money  come  from.  Marsh  ?" 

"  I  don't  steal  it,"  said  Charley,  turning  from  pale  to 
red ;  "  be  sure  of  that !" 

"  Come,  my  boy,  don't  be  angry.  You  know  I  don't 
deserve  that  speech ;  but  surely,  Charley,  this  sort  of 
tiling  should  not  go  on.     Where  will  it  end?" 

"  Where,  indeed  ?"  said  Charley,  gloomily.  "  Yal,  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  how  you  found  this  out  ?" 

"  Pshaw !  do  you  really  expect  to  go  in  and  out  of  the 
most  notorious  gambling-house  in  Speckport,  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  and  night,  and  it  not  be  discovered?  Yoa 
ought  to  know  this  place  better." 

"  That  is  true  ;  but  how  did  that  infernal  business  of 
McGregor's  leak  out  ?    No  one  knew  it  but  oureelves." 


WOOED    AND     WON.  05 

"  It  has  -leaked  out,  and  is  known  to  two  persons,  who 
may  blow  on  you  all  at  any  moment." 

"  And  I  wanted  to  keep  it  from  !N"atty.  Yal,  old  fellow, 
do  tell  me  who  they  are." 

"  You  know  I  won't ;  it  would  do  no  good.  Charley, 
I  wish  you  would  stop  in  time." 

"  Stuff !  it's  no  hanging  matter  after  all.  Dozens  go 
there  as  well  as  I  !" 

"  You  won't  give  it  up,  then  ?" 

"  Not  until  I  win  back  what  I  have  lost.  My  coffers 
ai*e  not  so  full  that  I  can  lose  without  trying  to  win  it 
back.  Don't  talk  to  me,  Blake,  it's  of  no  use ;  win  I  must, 
there  is  no  alternative.  Won't  Aiick  go  into  white  hor- 
ror when  he  hnds  the  murder's  out  ?" 

Val  turned  to  leave. 

"  You're  going,  are  you  ?"  said  Charley.  "  I  need  hard- 
ly tell  you  to  koxjp  dark  about  this  ;  it  will  only  mar,  not 
mend  mattere,  to  let  it  get  wind.  Don't  look  so  solemn, 
old  boy,  all's  not  lost  tbat's  in  danger." 

Val  said  nothing — what  was  thg  use?  He  passed  out 
and  went  home  to  his  domain. 

"I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  he  said  to  himself, 
going  along ;  "  but  I  have  done  my  duty,  and  that's  satis- 
factory. I'll  keep  my  eye  on  you.  Captain  Cavendish,  and 
if  ever  I  get  a  chance,  won't  I  play  you  a  good  turn  for 
this  I" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WOOED    AND    WON. 

ND  if  ever  I  find  her  going  prancing  round 
with  him  any  more,"  said  Lady  Leroy,  claw- 
ing the  air  viciously  with  her  skinny  fingers, 
"  or  letting  him  come  home  with  her  again, 
I'll  turn  her  out  of  doors,  I  will,  as  sure  as 
your  name's  Midge." 


96  WOOED    AND     TFOJT. 

"  "WTiicti  it  isn't,"  said  Midge ;  "  for  I  was  christened 
Prisciller.  And  as  for  turning  licr  out,  you  know  right 
well,  ma'am,  you  can  never  get  along  without  her,  so 
Where's  the  good  of  your  gabbmg." 

The  dialogue  between  mistress  and  maid  took  place, 
of  course,  in  the  former's  room,  which  she  rarely  left. 
Midge  was  preparing  her  ladyship's  dinner,  all  the  cooking 
being  done  in  the  chamber,  and  all  the  edibles  being  kept 
under  lock  and  key,  and  doled  out  in  ounces.  Midge  and 
Lady  Leroy  fought  regular  pitched  battles  every  day  over 
the  stinted  allowance  awarded  her ;  and  Natty  had  to  come 
to  the  resue  by  purcliasing,  from  her  own  private  puree, 
the  wherewithal  to  satisfy  Midge.  No  other  servant  would 
have  lived  at  Redmon  on  the  penurious  wages  the  old  lady 
grumblingly  gave,  probably  on  no  wages  at  all,  considering 
the  loneliness  of  the  place,  its  crabbed  and  miserly  mistress, 
and  hard  work ;  but  Midge  stayed  through  her  love  of 
Nathalie,  and  contradicted  and  bickered  with  Lady  Leroy 
from  morning  till  night.  In  the  days  when  the  Marshes 
were  rich  and  prosperous.  Midge  had  been  a  hanger  on  of 
the  household,  doing  pretty  much  as  she  pleased,  an  J  com- 
ing and  going,  and  working  or  loafing  as  she  liked.  She 
had  saved  Charley's  life  once,  nearly  at  the  risk  of  her 
own,  and  loved  him  and  Nathalie  with  a"  depth  of  self- 
sacrilicing  and  jealous  tenderness  few  would  have  given 
her  credit  for.  Nathalie  was  good  to  her  ahvays,  consid- 
erate and  kind,  putting  up  with  her  humor  and  querulous- 
ness,  and  ready  to  shield  her  from  slights  at  anj'  time. 
Midge  scolded  the  young  lady  roundly  on  many  an  occa- 
sion, and  Natty  took  it  good-humoredly  always.  She  was 
out  now,  and  Lady  Leroy's  wrath  had  L'cen  kindled  by 
something  that  had  happened  the  preceding  night,  and 
which  she  had  found  out  through  Cheri'ie  Nettleby,  for 
Midge  told  no  tales.  Captain  Cavendish,  contrary  to  her 
express  orders,  had  seen  Nathalie  home  from  a  little  socia- 
ble at  lier  mother's.  Val,  Miss  Jo,  Laura  Blair,  Catty 
Clowrie,  Jeannette  and  Alick  McGregor,  Charley,  and 
Captain  Cavendish  only  had  been  there ;  for  some  sick 
pauper  had  sent  for  Miss  Itose,  and  she  had  gone,  glad  to 
escape.     Chcrrie  liad  seen  the   captain  and  Miss  Mai-sh 


WOOED    AND     WON.  97 

pass  the  cottage,  and,  spiteful  and  jealous,  had  tattled  next 
morning.  Lady  Leroy  disliked  Captain  Cavendish — she 
did  most  people  for  that  matter,  but  she  honored  him  witli 
especial  avei-sion.  Nathalie  had  gone  off  after  breakfast 
to  Speckport,  to  attend  to  her  music-pupils  and  visit  the 
school.  Cherrie  had  come  in  afterward  to  retail  the  town- 
gossip,  and  had  but  just  departed ;  and  now  the  old  lady 
was  raging  to  Midge. 

"  I  tell  you,  Midge,  I  don't  like  him !"  she  shrilly  cried, 
"  I  don't  like  him,  and  I  don't  want  him  coming  here." 

"No  more  don't  I,"  retorted  Midge,  "I'd  go  to  his 
hanging  with  the  greatest  pleasure  ;  but  where's  the  odds  ? 
He  don't  care  whetlier  we  like  him  or  not;  he  only  laughs 
and  jeers  at  botli  of  us,  so  long  as  slie  does." 

"It  ain't  her  he  likes,"  said  Lady  Leroy,  "it's  my 
money,  my  money,  that  I've  pinched  and  spared  to  save, 
and  that  he  thinks  to  squander.  But  I'll  be  a  match  for 
him,  and  for  her  too,  the  ungrateful  minx,  if  she  thinks  to 
play  upon  me." 

"  She  ain't  an  ungrateful  minx,  ma'am !"  sharply  con- 
tradicted Midge ;  "  she's  better  nor  ever  you  were  or  ever 
will  be!  She  lives  shut  up  here  from  one  week's  end  to 
t'other,  slavin'  herself  for  you,  and  much  she  gets  for  it ! 
She  can  do  what  she  likes  with  the  money  when  you're 
dead!" 

Lady  Leroy's  face  turned  so  horribly  ghastly  at  this 
speech  that  it  was  quite  dreadful  to  look  at.  The  thought 
of  death  was  her  nightmare,  her  daily  horror.  She  never 
thought  of  it  at  all  if  she  could,  and  thus  forcibly  reminded, 
lier  features  worked  for  a  moment  as  if  she  had  a  fit.  Even 
Midge  grew  a  little  scared  at  what  she  had  done. 

"  There,  ma'am  !"  she  cried,  "  you  needn't  go  into  fits 
about  it.  My  speaking  of  it  won't  make  you  die  any  sooner. 
I  dessay  you're  good  for  twenty  years  yet,  if  your  appetite 
holds  out !" 

The  eld  woman's  livid  face  grew  a  shade  less  deathlike. 

"  Do  you  think  so.  Midge  'i     Do  you  think  so  'f 

"  Oh,  I  think  so  fast  enough !  Folks  like  you  always 
is  sure  to  spin  out  till  everybody's  tired  to  death  of  'em. 
5 


08  WOOED    AND     WON. 

Here's  your  dinner  ready  now ;  so  swallow  it,  and  save 
your  breath  for  that !" 

The  sight  of  her  meals  always  had  an  inspiring  effect 
on  the  mistress  of  Redmon,  and  Natty  was  for  the  moment 
forgotten.  Perhaps  it  might  have  spoiled  her  appetite  a 
little  had  she  seen  the  way  that  yonng  lady  was  retui-ning 
home,  and  in  what  company.  Not  walking  discreetly 
along  Redmon  road,  and  not  alone.  In  the  pretty  boat, 
all  white  and  gold,  with  the  name  "Nathalie"  in  golden 
letters — the  boat  that  had  been  poor  Alick  McGregor's 
gift — a  merry  little  party  were  skimming  over  the  sunlit 
waves,  reaching  Eedmon  by  sea  instead  of  land.  TJie 
snow-white  sail  was  set,  and  Nathalie  Mareh  was  steering ; 
the  sea-wind  blowing  about  her  tangled  yellow  curls,  flut- 
tering the  azure  ribbons  of  her  pretty  hat,  deepening  tlie 
roses  in  her  cheeks,  and  brightening  the  starry  eyes.  She 
sang  as  she  steered,  "  Over  the  Sea  in  my  Fairy  Bark,'' 
and  the  melodious,  voice  rung  sweetly  out  over  the  wide 
sea.  Near  her  Captain  Cavendish  lounged  over  the  side, 
watching  the  ripples  as  they  flew  along  in  the  teeth  of  the 
breeze,  and  looking  perfectly  content  to  stay  there  forever. 
Beside  him  sat  Laura  Blair,  and,  near  her.  Miss  Jo  Blake. 
Laui-a  was  often  with  Miss  Jo,  whom  she  liked,  partly  for 
her  own  sake — for  she  was  the  best-natured  old  maid  tliat 
ever  petted  a  cat — and  partly  for  her  brother's,  whom  Miss 
Blair  considered  but  one  remove  from  an  angel. 

The  quartet  had  "  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way,"  and 
Nathalie  had  invited  him  to  have  a  sail.  She  had  rowed 
herself  to  town  in  her  batteau,  but  the  sail  l)ack  was  incon- 
ceivably pleasanter.  As  the  batteau  ran  up  on  the  beach 
below  Redmon,  Natty  did  not  ask  them  to  the  house,  but 
no  one  was  surprised  at  that.  They  accompanied  her  to 
the  gate,  Captain  Cavendish  slinging  the  light  oars  over 
;  his  shoulder. 

''  And  you  will  be  at  the  picnic  day  after  to-morrow^ 
without  fail,"  Laura  was  saying  to  Nathalie. 

"  Can't  promise,"  replied  Natty.  "  Mrs.  Leroy  may 
take  it  into  her  head  to  refuse  permission,  and  I  liave'been 
out  a  great  deal  lately." 

"  r  don't  care,"  said  Laura, "  you  must  come !     If  Mrs. 


WOOED     Am)     WON.  99 

Leroj  turns  inexorable,  I  will  go  up  with  a  basket  of 
oranges  and  let  theui  plead  in  your  behalf.  You  see, 
captain,  we  have  to  '  stay  that  old  lady  with  flagons  and 
comfort  her  v\'ith  apples '  when  we  want  Xatty  very  badly, 
and  she  turns  refractory." 

"All  the  oran^s  in  Seville  would  not  be  thrown  away 
in  such  a  cause.  By  all  means,  Miss  Marsh,  come  to  the 
picnic." 

Speckport  was  famous  for  its  picnics,  and  excui'sions 
by  land  and  water.  This  one  was  the  first  of  the  season, 
and  was  to  be  held  on  Lady  Leroy's  grounds — a  pretty 
high  price  having  to  be  paid  for  the  privilege. 

"  There  won't  be  any  fun  without  you,  Xatty,"  said 
Miss  Jo ;  "I  won't  hear  of  your  absenting  yourself  at  all. 
Is  Miss  Rose  to  have  a  holiday  on  the  occasion  ?" 

"  I  ofi'ered  her  one,  but  she  declined ;  she  did  not  care 
for  going,  she  said." 

"  What  a  singular  girl  slie  is !"  said  Laura,  thought- 
fully ;  "  she  seems  to  care  very  little  for  pleasure  of  any 
kind  for  licrself ;  but  the  poor  of  Speckport  look  upon 
her  as  an  angel  sent  down  expressly  to  ■wiite  their  lettei's, 
look  after  them  in  sickness,  make  them  beef-tea,  and  teach 
their  children  for  notliing.  I  wish  you  would  make  her 
go  to  the  picnic,  Natty,  and  not  let  her  mope  herself  to 
death,  drudging  in  that  horrid  school-room." 

Captain  George  (Javendish,  leaning  on  the  oars  he  had 
been  carrying,  seemed  not  to  be  listening.  He  was  look- 
ing dreaniiiy  before  him,  seeing  neither  the  broad  green 
lields  with  the  summer  sunlight  sleeping  in  sheets  of  gold 
upon  them,  nor  the  white,  winding,  dusty  highroad,  nor 
the  ceaseless  sea,  spreading  away  and  away  until  it  kissed 
the  horizon-sky,  nor  tall  Miss  Jjlake,  nor  even  the  two 
l)retty  girls  who  talked.  It  had  all  faded  from  before 
him ;  and  he  was  many  a  mile  away  in  a  strange,  foreign- 
looking  city,  with  narrow,  crooked  streets,  filled  "with 
foreign-looking  men  and  women,  and  priests  in  long  black 
soutanes,  and  queer  hats,  and  black  nuns  and  gi'ay  nuns, 
and  Notre  Dame  nuns  and  Sisters  of  Cliarity  and  Mercy, 
all  talldng  in  French,  and  looking  at  each  other  with  dark 
Canadian  eyes.     He  was  back  in  Montreal,  he  saw  the 


100  WOOED    AND     WON. 

Champ-de-Mars,  the  Place  d'Arme,  the  great  convents, 
the  innnraerable  churches  with  their  tall  crosses  pointing 
to  the  heaven  we  are  all  trying  to  reach j  and  he  saw  him- 
self beside  one — fairer  in  his  eyes  than  all  the  dnslcv 
Canadian  beauties  in  the  world,  with  their  purple-blaclf 
hair  and  great  flashing  black  eyes.  "  Winnie !  Winnie ! 
Winnie  1"  his  false  heart  was  passionately  crying,  as  that 
old  time  came  back,  and  golden-haired,  violet-eyed  Nath- 
alie Marsh  was  no  more  to  him  than  if  she  had  been  but 
the  fantasy  of  a  dream.  He  had  flirted  and  played  the 
lover  to  scores ;  played  it  so  long  and  so  often  that  it  had 
become  second  nature,  as  necessary  as  the  air  he  breathed ; 
but  he  had  only  loved  one,  and  he  seemed  in  a  fair  way 
of  going  on  to  the  end.  He  had  been  a  traitor,  but  he 
could  not  forget.  The  girl  he  had  jilted  Avas  avenged  if 
she  wished  for  vengeance :  no  pang  he  had  ever  given 
could  be  keener  than  what  he  felt  himself. 

A  laugh  aroused  him,  a  merry,  girlish  laugh.  He 
awoke  from  his  dream  with  a  start,  and  found  them  all 
looking  at  him. 

"  So  you  have  awoke  at  last,"  laughed  Laura.  "  Three 
times  have  I  told  you  we  were  going,  and  there  you  stood, 
staring  at  empty  space,  and  paying  no  more  attention  than 
if  you  were  stone-deaf.  Pray,  Captain  Cavendish,  where 
were  you  just  now  ?" 

Before  he  could  answer,  the  gate  against  which  Nath- 
alie leaned  was  puslie<l  violently  open,  and  the  thick 
dwaiiish  flgure  and  unlovely  face  of  Midge  was  thrust 
out — not  made  more  prepossessing  by  an  ugly  scowl. 

"Miss  Natty,"  she  shrilly  cried,  "I  want  to  know  if 
you  mean  to  stand  here  all  day  long  ?  It's  past  two  now, 
and  when  you  go  up  to  the  house,  pei'haps  the  old  woman 
won't  give  it  you — and  serve  you  right,  too !"  added  Miss 
Midge,  sotto  voce. 

"So  late!"  Nathalie  cried,  in  alarm.  "I  had  no 
idea  of  it.'  Good-bye,  Miss  Jo;  good-bye,  Laura.  I 
must  go !" 

She  had  smiled  and  nodded  her  farewell  to  the  cap- 
tain, and  was  off  like  a  dart.  Midge  slammed  the  gate  in 
their  faces,  and  went  sulkily  after. 


WOOED    AND     WON.  101 

In  considerable  consternation,  Nathalie  ran  np-staira 
and  into  the  awful  presence  of  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
She  knew  well  she  was  in  for  a  scolding,  and  was  bracing 
hei-self  to  meet  it. 

Lady  Leroy  had  never  been  so  furiously  angry  since 
the  fii*st  day  the  young  lady  had  entered  beneath  her  roof, 
and  the  storm  burst  before  Miss  Marsh  was  fairly  in  the 
room.  Such  a  tempe?t  of  angry  words,  such  a  tornado  of 
scolding,  such  a  wrathful  outbreak  of  old  woman's  fury, 
it  has  been  the  ill-fortune  of  but  few  to  hear.  Nathalie 
bore  it  like  a  heroine,  without  flinching  and  without  re- 
treat, though  her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  and  her  blue  eyes 
flashing  fire.  She  had  clinched  one  little  hand  involun- 
tarily, and  set  her  teeth,  and  compressed  her  lips,  as  if  to 
force  herself  not  to  fling  back  the  old  woman's  rage  in 
her  face ;  but  the  struggle  was  hard.  Passionate  and 
proud  Kathalie's  nature  wjis,  but  the  fiery  steeds  of  pride 
and  passion  she  had  been  taught,  long  ago,  at  her  father's 
knee,  to  rein  with  the  curb  of  patience.  But  I  am  afraid 
it  was  not  this  Christian  motive  that  held  her  silent  always 
ander  Lady  Leroy's  unreasonable  abuse.  Ambition  was 
the  girl's  ruling  passion.  With  her  whole  heart  and  soul 
she  longed  for  wealth  and  power,  and  the  first  of  these 
priceless  blessings,  in  whose  train  the  second  followed, 
could  only  be  obtained  through  this  vituperative  old  bel- 
dame. If  Nathalie  let  nature  and  passion  have  their 
way,  and  flung  back  fury  for  fury,  she  would  find  herself 
incontinently  turned  out  of  doors,  and  back  again,  prol> 
ably,  the  day  after,  in  that  odious  school-room,  wearing 
out  her  heart,  and  going  mad  slowly  with  the  dull  drudg- 
ery of  a  poor  teacher's  life.  This  motive  in  itself  was 
strong  enough,  but  of  late  days  another  and  a  stronger 
had  been  added.  If  she  were  Miss  Marsh,  the  school- 
mistress. Captain  Cavendish,  the  heir  of  a  baronet,  would 
doubtless  admire,  and — have  nothing  whatever  to  say  to 
lier ;  but  Miss  Mareh,  the  heiress  of  Redmon  and  of  Lady 
Leroy's  thousands,  was  quite  another  thing,  lie  was  poor 
now,  comparatively  speaking ;  she  knew  that — how  sweot 
it  would  be  to  lay  a  fortune  at  the  feet  of  the  man  she 
loved  I    Some  day  in  the  bright  future  he  would  lay  a 


103  WOOED    AND     WOK 

title  at  her  fair  feet  in  return,  and  all  lier  dreams  of  love, 
an :.  power,  and  greatness,  would  be  more  than  realized. 
Not  that  Nathalie  for  one  instant  fancied  George  Caven- 
dish sought  her  for  her  fortune — she  would  have  flung 
back  such  a  suspicion  furiously  in  the  face  of  the  proffer er 
— but  she  knew  enough  of  the  fitness  of  things  to  be  aware 
that,  however  much  he  might-secretly  adore  her  rose-hued 
cheeks,  golden  hair,  and  violet  eyes,  he  could  never  marry 
a  portionless  bride.  On  this  tiger-cat  old  Tartar,  then,  all 
these  sweet  dreams  depended  for  their  f niition ;  and  she 
must  pocket  her  pride,  and  eat  humble  pie,  and  make  no 
wry  faces  over  that  unpalatable  pastry.  She  must  be  pa- 
tient and  long-suffering  now,  that  she  might  reign  like  a 
princess  royal  hereafter ;  so  while  Lady  Leroy  stormed 
and  poured  no  end  of  vials  of  wrath  on  her  ward's  un- 
fortunate head,  that  young  person  only  shut  her  rosy  lips 
the  harder,  and  bated  her  breath  not  to  reply.  We  are  so 
strong  to  conquer  ourselves,  you  see,  when  pounds,  shil- 
lings, and  pence  are  concerned,  and  so  weak  and  cowardly 
to  obey  the  commands  of  One  who  was  led  "  as  a  lamb  to 
the  slaughter,  and  who  opened  not  his  mouth."  So  Nath- 
alie stood,  breathing  quick,  and  only  holding  herself  from 
flying  at  her  tormentress  by  main  force,  and  Lady  Leroy 
stormed  on  until  forced  to  stop  from  want  of  breath. 

"  And  now.  Miss,"  she  wound  up,  her  little  eyes  glar- 
ing on  the  young  lady,  "  1  should  like  to  know  what 
you've  got  to  say  for  yourself." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  replied  Nathalie,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  not !  All  I  say  goes  in  one  ear  and 
out  t'other,  doesn't  it,  now  ?  Ain't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self, you  minx  ?" 

"  No !"  quietly  said  Nathalie. 

Mrs.  Leroy  glared  upon  her  with  a  look  of  fury,  hor- 
ribly revolting  in  that  old  and  wrinkled  face. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you'll  ever  do  it  again  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  you'll  go  with  that  man  any  more  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  you  defy  and  disobey  me  ?  Tell  me !" 
cried  Lady  Leroy,  clawing  the  air  as  if  she  were  clawing 


WOOED    A2W     WOK  103 

the  eyes  out  of  Captain  Cavendish's  handsome  head,  "  tell 
mc  if  yon  mean  to  do  this !" 

"  Yes !"  was  the  liery  answer  flaming  in  the  girl's 
crimson  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes,  "I  defy  yon  to  the 
death !"  But  prudence  sidled  up  to  her  and  whispered,  ,. 
"  Heiress  of  Redmon,  remember  what  yon  risk !"  and  so—-  ** 
oh,  that  I  should  have  to  tell  it ! — Nathalie  Marsh  smoothed 
lier  contracted  brows,  vailed  the  angry  brightness  of  her 
blue  eyes  under  their  sweeping  lashes,  and  steadily  said : 

"  Mrs.  Leroy,  you  know  I  have  no  wish  to  willfully 
defy  or  disobey  you.  I  should  be  sorry  to  be  anything 
but  true  and  dutiful  to  you,  and  I  am  not  conscious  of 
being  anything  else  now." 

"  You  are — you  know  you  are !"  the  old  woman  pas- 
sionately cried.  "You  know  I  liate  this  man — this 
spendthrift,  this  fortune-seekei-,  this  smooth-spoken,  false- 
hearted hypocrite!  Give  up  this  man — promise  me 
never  to  speak  to  him  again,  and  tlien  I  will  believe 
yon  !^' 

Nathalie  stood  silent. 

"  Promise,"  shrilly  screamed  Lady  Leroy,  "  promise  or 
else " 

She  stopped  short,  but  the  white  rage  in  her  distorted 
face  finished  the  sentence  with  emphasis. 

"  I  will  promise  you  one  thing,"  said  Nathalie,  turning 
pale  and  cold,  "  that  he  shall  not  come  to  Redmon  any 
more.  You  accuse  him  unjustly,  Mrs.  Leroy — he  is  none 
of  the  things  you^  say.  Do  not  ask  me  to  promise  any- 
thing else — I  cannot  do  it !" 

What  Lady  Leroy  would  have  said  to  this  Nathalie 
never  knew  ;  for  at  that  moment  there  came  a  loud  knock 
at  tlie  front  door,  and  Miss  Marsh,  only  too  glad  to  escape, 
flew  down  to  answer  it. 

The  alarm  at  the  outer  door  proved  to  come  from 
Charley  Marsh ;  and  Nnthalie  stared,  as  she  saw  how  pale 
and  haggard  he  looked — so  nnHke  her  bright-faced 
brother. 

"  What  ails'you,  Charley  ?"  she  anxiously  asked.  "  Are 
you  sick?" 

«  Sick  ?    No !    Whv  should  I  be  sick  ?" 


104  WOOED    AND     WON. 

"  Yon  are  as  pale  and  wom-looking  as  if  yon  had  been 
ill  for  a  month.     Something  has  gone  wrong." 

"  I  have  been  up  all  night,"  said  Chaney,  omitting, 
however,  to  add,  playing  billiards.  "  That's  why.  Nath- 
alie," hnrriedly  and  nervously,  *'  have  yon  any  money  ?  I 
can't  ask  before  that  old  virago  np-stairs." 

"  Money !    Yes,  I  have  some.     Do  you  want  it  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  lend  me  as  much  as  you  can,  for  a 
short  time.  There  !"  he  said,  impatiently,  "  don't  be^n 
asking  questions,  Natty.  I  want  it  particularly,  and  I 
will  pay  you  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  How  much  have  you 
got?" 

"  I  have  nearly  twenty  poxmds,  more  or  less.    Will 
•that  do?" 

"  It  will  help.  Don't  say  anythuig  about  it,  Natty, 
like  a  good  gii-l.     "Who's  in  ?" 

"  No  one  but  Mrs.  Leroy.    Won't  you  come  up  ?'* 

."I  must,  I  suppose.  Get  the  money  while  I  am  talk- 
ing to  her,  and  give  it  to  me  as  I  go  out.  What  a  solemn 
f aceyou  have  got,  Natty !" 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke — Charley's  careless,  boyish 
laugh,  but  N  athalie  only  sighed  as  they  ascended  the  stairs 
together. 

"  Mrs.  Leroy  has  been  scolding  ever  since  I  came  from 
town.  If  ever  a  fortune  was  dearly  bought,  Charley,  mine 
will  be." 

"  Paying  too  dear  for  your  whistle — eh  ?  Never  mind, 
Natty!  it  can't  last  forever,  and  neither  .can  Lady  Leroy." 

All  the  shadow  had  gone  from  Charley's  brow,  and 
the  change  was  magical.  Whether  it  was  the  promise  of 
the  money,  or  his  natural  elasticity  of  spirit  rebounding, 
he  knew  best ;  but  certainly  when  he  shook  hands  with 
the  mistress  of  the  domain,  the  sunshine  outside  was  not 
brighter  than  his  handsome  face.  Mrs.  Leroy  rather  liked 
Charley,  which  is  saying  folios  in  the  youn^  man's  favor, 
considering  how  few  that  cantankerous  old  cat  admitted 
to  her  favor — but  every  one  liked  Charley  Marsh. 

While  Nathalie  went  to  her  own  room  for  the  money, 
Nathalie's  brother  was  holding  Mrs.  Leroy  spell-bound 
with  his  brilliant  flow  of  conversation.  All  the  gossip  and 


WOOED    AND     WON.  105 

scandal  of  Speckport  was  retailed — ^business,  pleasure, 
fashion,  and  lights,  related  ^v'ith  appetizing  gusto ;  and 
where  the  reality  fell  short,  Mr.  Mareh  called  upon  his 
lively  imagination  for  a  few  extra  facts.  The  forthcomino 
picnic  and  its  delights  were  discussed,  and  Charley  advised 
lier  to  strain  a  point  and  be  present. 

"  Midge  can  wheel  you  about  the  field,  you  know,  in 
your  chair,"  said  Charley.  "  You  won't  take  cold — the 
day's  sui'e  to  be  delightful,  and  I  know  every  one  will 
enjoy  themselves  ten  times  better  for  having  yci  there. 
You  had  better  come.  Val  Blake  and  I  will  carry  you 
down  stairs!" 

To  the  astonishment  of  Nathalie,  Mrs.  Leroy  assented 
readily  to  the  odd  proposition;  and  Charley  departed, 
having  charmed  the  old  lady  into  utter  forgetfulness,  for 
the  time  bein^,  of  her  antipathy  to  Captain  Cavendish. 
Speckport  could  talk  of  nothing  for  a  week  beforehand 
but  tlie  picnic — the  first  of  the  season.  All  Speckport 
was  going,  young  and  old,  ricli  and  poor.  Admission, 
twenty-five  cents ;  children,  half  price. 

The  Eedmon  grounds,  where  the  picnic  was  to  be 
held,  were  extensive  and  beautiful.  Broad  velvety  fields, 
green  lanes,  among  miniature  forests  of  fragrant  cedar 
and  spruce,  and  all  sloping  down  to  the  smooth,  white 
sands  of  the  beach,  with  the  gray  sea  tramping  dully  in, 
and  the  salt  spray  dashing  up  in  your  face.  And  "1  hope 
it  won't  be  foggy !  I  do  hope  it  won't  be  foggy  !"  was 
the  burden  of  every  one's  cry  ;  the  fog  generally  choosing 
to  step  in  and  stay  a  week  or  two,  whenever  Speckport 
proposed  a  picnic.  How  many  blinds  were  drawn  aside 
in  the  gray  and  dismal  dawn  of  that  eventful  morning, 
and  how  many  eager  pairs  of  eyes,  shaded  by  night-cap 
borders,  turned  anxiously  heavenward ;  and  how  delight- 
edly they  were  drawn  in  again !  for,  wonderful  to  tell, 
the  sky  was  blue  and  without  a  cloud,  and  the  sun,  rising 
in  a  canopy  of  rose  and  amber,  promised  all  beholders  a 
day  of  unremitting  sunshine. 

Before  nine  o'clock  the  Reduion  road  was  alive  with 
people — all  in  gorgeous  array.  Before  ten,  the  droves  of 
men,  women,  and  children  increased  fourfold,  and  tho 
5* 


106  WOOED    AND     WON. 

dust  was  something  awful.  The  sun  fairly  blazed  in  the 
sky ;  had  it  ever  shone  so  dazzlingly  before,  or  was  there 
ever  so  brilliantly  blue  a  sky,  or  such  heaps  and  heaps  of 
billows  of  snowy  white,  floating  through  it  ?  Before  eleven, 
that  boiling  seaside  sun  would  have  grilled  you  alive  only 
for  the  strong  sea-breeze,  heaven-sent,  sweeping  up  from 
the  bay.  Through  fiery  heat,  and  choking  dust,  the  cry 
was  "  still  they  come,"  and  Kedmon  grounds  swarmed  with 
people,  as  the  fields  of  Egypt  once  swarmed  with  locust. 
A  great  arch  of  evergreens  sunnounted  the  entrance-gate, 
and  the  Union  Jack  floated  loyally  over  it  in  the  morning 
sunshine.  The  clanging  of  the  band  and  the  roll  of  the 
drum  greeted  your  delighted  eare  the  moment  you  entered 
the  fairy  arch,  and  you  found  youi*self  lost  and  bewildered 
in  a  sea  of  people  you  never  saw  before.  The  swings 
were  flying  with  dizzying  velocity,  young  belles  went  up 
until  the  toes  of  their  gaiters  nearly  touched  the  firmament, 
and  your  head  reeled  to  look  at  them.  Some  two  or  three 
hundred  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  tripping  the  light 
fantastic  toe  to  the  inspiring  music  of  a  set  of  Irish  quad- 
rilles ;  and  some  eiglit  hundred  spectatoi-s  were  gathered 
in  tremendous  circles  about  them,  looking  on,  gazing  as  if 
never  in  all  their  lives  had  so  glorious  and  wonderful  a 
vision  as  their  fellow-sinners  jiggiug  up  and  down, 
dazzled  their  enchanted  eyes.  The  refreshment  tents  were 
in  such  a  crowded  and  jammed  and  sufl'ocating  state,  that 
you  could  see  the  steam  ascending  from  them  as  from  an 
escape-valve ;  and  the  fair  ones  behind  the  tables,  be- 
wildered by  two  dozen  clamorous  voices,  demanding  the 
attention  of  each  one  at  once,  passed  pies  and  tarts,  and 
sandwiches  and  soda  water,  and  coffee  and  cakes  frantically 
and  at  random,  and  let  little  boys  feed  in  corners  unnoticed, 
and  were  altogether  reduced  to  a  state  of  utter  imbecility 
by  the  necessity  of  doing  half  a  dozen  things  at  one  and 
the  same  time.  Pink  and  blue,  and  yellow  and  green 
ribbons  fluttered,  and  silks  and  muslins  and  bareges  trailed 
the  grass  and  got  torn  off  the  waist  by  masculine  boot- 
heels  ;  and  the  picnic  was  too  delightful  for  description, 
and,  over  all,  the  fiery  noonday  «Jiily  sun  blazed  like  a 
wheel  of  fire,  and  the  sea  wind  swept  up  fresh  and  deli- 


WOOED    AND     WON.  107 

cions,  and  tlie  waves  sang  their  old  song  down  on  the 
shore,  and  no  one  listened  to  their  mystic  music  or  won- 
dered, like  poor  little  Paul  Dombej,  what  they  were 
saying. 

No  one  !  Yes,  there  was  one  sitting  on  a  green  bank, 
all  alone,  who  had  been  very  busy  all  morning  until  now, 
arranging  tables  and  waiting  on  hungry  pleasure-seekers, 
making  little  boys  and  girls  behave  themselves,  and 
swinging  little  people  who  could  get  no  one  else  to  attend 
them.  The  breeze  that  set  the  tall  reeds  and  fern  at 
fandangoing  waved  her  black  barege  dress,  and  flimg 
back  the  little  black  lace  vail  falling  from  her  hat.  Tired 
and  hot,  she  had  wandered  here  to  listen  to  the  waves  and 
to  the  tumult  behind  her. 

What  were  the  thoughts  of  the  man  who  leaned  against 
a  tall  tamarack  tree  and  watched  the  recHning  figure  as  a 
cat  does  a  mouse  ?  There  are  some  souls  so  dark  that  all 
the  beauty  of  earth  and  heaven  are  as  blank  pages  to  them. 
They  see  without  comprehending,  without  one  feeling  of 
thoughtfulness  for  all  the  glory  around  them.  Surely  it 
were  better  for  such  to  have  been  born  blind.  This  man 
saw  no  wide  sea  spreading  before  him,  glittering  as  if 
sown  with  stars.  There  was  more  to  him  worth  watching 
in  one  flutter  of  that  thin  black  dress  on  the  bank  than  in 
all  the  world  beside,  and  he  stood  and  watched  with  his 
eyes  half  closed,  vraiting  until  she  should  see  him. 

He  had  not  to  wait  long.  Some  prescience  that  some- 
thing out  of  harmony  with  the  scene  was  near,  made  her 
restless.  She  rose  up  on  her  elbow,  and  looked  round — 
a  second  after,  her  face  flushed,  she  was  up  oif  the  grass 
and  on  her  feet.     Tlie  man  lifted  his  hat  and  advanced. 

"Pardon  my  intrusion,  "Winnie — Miss  Rose,  and — no, 
no — I  beg  you  %vill  not  go !" 

She  had  made  to  turn  away,  but  he  himself  interposed 
— something  of  agitation  in  his  manner,  and  it  was  but 
rarely,  indeed,  Captain  George  Cavendish  allowed  himself 
to  be  agitated.  She  stopped  gently  enough,  the  surprised 
flush  faded  out  from  her  face — that  pretty,  pale  face, 
tranquil  as  face  could  be,  was  only  very  grave. 

"  If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  Captain  Caven- 


108  WOOED    AlW     WOir. 

dish,  please  to  say  it  qnickly.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  seen 
here." 

"  Is  it  such  a  disgrace,  then,  to  be  eeen  for  one  poor 
instant  with  me?"  he  said,  bitterly. 

She  did  not  reply,  save  by  an  impatient  tapping  of  one 
foot  on  the  grass,  and  a  backward  glance  at  the  crowded 
grounds. 

"  Winnie !"  he  broke  out,  passionately,  as  if  stnng  by 
her  manner,  "  have  you  turned  into  a  nirt  ?  Have  you 
entirely  forgotten  what  is  past  ?  You  cannot — ^you  can- 
not have  ceased  altogether  to  care  for  me,  since  I  cannot, 
do  what  I  will,  forget  you !" 

Miss  Eose  looked  at  him — steadily,  quietly,  gravely, 
out  of  her  brown  eyes.^  If  he  had  hoped  for  anything, 
that  one  look  would  have  shivered  his  air-castles  as  a  stone 
shivers  brittle  glass. 

"  I  told  you  once  before.  Captain  Cavendish,  that  such 
words  from  you  to  me  were  insults.  The  past,  wliere  you 
are  concerned,  is  no  more  to  me  than  if  you  had  never  ex- 
isted. I  have  not  forgotten  it,  but  it  has  no  more  power 
to  move  me  than  the  waves  there  can  move  those  piles  of 
rock.  No !  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  I  look  back  often 
enough  now  with  wonder  and  pity  at  myself,  that  I  ever 
should  have  been  the  idiot  that  I  was." 

His  face  turned  crimson  at  the  unmistakable  earnest- 
ness of  her  words. 

"  Then  I  need  scruple  or  hesitate  no  longer,"  he  said, 
launching  his  last  pitiful  shaft.  "  I  need  hesitate  no  lon- 
ger, on  your  score,  to  speak  the  words  that  will  make  one 
who  is  rich  and  beautiful,  and  who  loves  iie,  happy.  I 
came  here  willingly  to  make  what  atonement  I  could  for 
the  past,  by  telling  you  beforehand,  lest  the  shock  of  my 
mariiage " 

He  stopped  in  actual  confusion,  but  raging  inwardly 
at  tlie  humiliation  she  was  making  him  feel — this  poor 
little  pale  schoolmistress,  whom  he  could  have  lifted  with 
one  hand  and  flung  easily  over  the  bank.  She  was  smiling 
as  she  listened  to  him,  a  smile  not  of  mockery  or  disdain, 
only  so  gallingly  full  of  utter  indifference  to  nim. 

"  There  is  no  atonement  necessary,"  she  said,  with  that 


WOUED    AND     WON.  109 

oonscious  smile  still  hovering  on  her  lips ;  "  none,  I  assure 
you.  I  have  no  hard  feelint^  toward  yon,  Captain  Cav- 
endish, nothing  to  resent  or  torgive.  If  I  was  an  idiot,  it 
was  ray  own  fault,  I  dare  say,  and  I  would  not  blot  out 
one  day  that  is  gone  if  I  could.  Marry  when  you  will, 
many  as  soon  as  you  please,  and  no  one  will  wish  you  joy 
rao7e  sincerely  on  your  wedding  day  than  1." 

It  half-inaddened  hini,  that  supreme  indifference,  that 
sei'ene  face.  He  knew  that  lie  loved  her,  herself,  and  her 
alone ;  and  while  he  fancied  her  pining  and  love-lorn,  he 
was  very  well  satisfied  and  quite  complacent  over  her  case. 
But  this  turn  of  the  story  was  a  little  too  mortifying  to 
any  man's  pride  to  stand,  and  the  man  a  lady-killer  by  pro- 
fession at  that. 

"  1  don't  beUe^'"e  it,"  he  said,  savagely,  "you  have  not 
forgotten — you  cared  for  me  too  much  for  that.  I  did 
not  think  you  could  stoop  to  falsehood  while  playing  the 
role  of  a  saint." 

Miss  Rose  gave  him  a  look — a  look  before  which,  with 
all  his  fury,  lie  shrank.  She  had  turned  to  walk  away, 
bnt  she  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"  I  am  telling  no  falseliood.  Captain  Cavendish  :  before 
I  stoop  to  that,  I  pray  I  may  die.  You  know  in  your 
heart  I  mean  what  I  say,  and  you  know  that  yow  believe 
me.  I  have  many  things  to  be  thankful  for,  but  chief 
among  them,  when  I  kneel  down  to  tliank  God  for  his 
mercies,  I  thank  hiin  that  I  am  not  your  wife !"' 

She  walked  slowly  away,  and  he  did  not  follow  her ; 
he  only  stood  there,  swallowing  the  bitter  pill,  and  digest- 
ing it  as  best  he  might.  It  was  provoking,  no  doubt,  not 
tobe  able  to  foi'get  this  wretched  little  schooi-ma'ain,  while 
she  so  coolly  banished  him  from  her  memory — so  utterly 
and  entirely  banished  him  ;  for  Captain  Cavendish  knew 
better  than  to  disbelieve  lier.  He  had  jilted  her,  it  is  true, 
as  he  had  many  another  ;  but  where  was  his  triumph  now? 
If  he  could  only  have  forgotten  her  himself ;  but  when 
the  gra))cs  were  within  his  reach,  he  had  despised  them, 
;iii(l  now  that  they  grew  above  his  head,  and  he  did  want 
llicm,  it  was  exasperating  that  he  could  not  get  them. 

"  Pall !"  ho  thought  bitterly,  "  what  a  fool  I  urn !     1 


110  WOOED    AyD     WON. 

could  not  marry  her  were  slie  ever  so  willing  now,  any 
more  than  I  could  then.  This  cursed  debt  is  dragging  me 
to— perdition — 1  was  going  to  say,  and  I  must  marry  a  for- 
tune, and  tliat  soon.  Nathalie  Marsh  is  the  richest  girl 
in  Speckport,  therefore  I  shall  marry  Nathalie  Marsh.  She 
is  ten  times  more  beautiful  than  that  little  quakeress  who 
is  just  gone;  but  I  can't  love  her,  and  I  can't  forget  the 
other." 

Captain  Cavendisli  leaned  against  the  tamarack  a  long 
time,  thinking.  The  uproar  behind  him  and  the  roar  of 
the  surf  on  the  shore  blended  together  in  a  dull,  meaning- 
less tumult  in  hi».ears.  He  was  thinking  of  this  marriage 
de  convenance  he  must  make,  of  this  bride  he  must  one 
day  take  home  to  England.  He  was  a  gambler  and  a 
spendthrift,  this  man,  over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  and  with 
no  way  but  this  one  of  ever  getting  out  of  it.  From  hfe 
friends  in  England  ?  He  had  no  friends  in  England  on 
whom  he  could  rely.  His  only  rich  relative,  his  uncle,  the 
baronet,  had  taken  it  into  his  head,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five, 
to  get  married ;  and  what  was  more,  there  was  an  heir,  a 
young  gentleman  of  five  months  old,  between  him  and  the 
baronetcy.  His  commission  had  been  purchased  by  his 
uncle,  and  it  seemed  all  he  need  ever  expect  from  him. 
He  had  never  seen  service,  and  had  no  particular  desire  to 
see  any.  He  must  marry  a  rich  wife — there  was  no  alter- 
native— and  he  knew  the  power  of  his  handsome  face  ex- 
tremely well.  He  had  no  fear  of  a  refusal ;  there  was  no 
use  in  delaying ;  he  would  make  the  heiress  of  Redmon 
happy  that  very  day. 

The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  waves,  in  an  ori- 
flamrae  of  gold  and  crimson  and  purple  and  rose,  flushing 
the  whole  sky  with  Its  tropical  beauty,  when  the  young 
ofiicer  turned  away  to  seek  for  his  future  wife.  As  if  his 
thoughts  had  evoked  her  she  was  coming  toward  him,  and 
all  alone  ;  her  white  dress  floating  mistily  about  her,  all  her 
golden  curls  hanging  damp  and  loose  over  her  shoulders, 
and  her  cheeks  flushed  with  the  heat.  She  had  taken  off 
her  hat,  and  was  swinging  it  by  its  azure  ribbons,  as  she 
came  up ;  and  she  looked  so  beautiful  that  the  young  Eng- 


WOOED    AND     WON.  Ill 

glishman  thought  that  it  would  not  be  so  very  dreadful  a 
thing  to  sell  himself  to  this  violet-eyed  sultana  after  all. 

"Truant!"  said  Nathalie,  "  where  have  you  been  all 
the  afternoon  ?    I  thought  you  had  gone  away." 

"  And  all  the  time  I  have  been  standing  here,  like  P.i 
tience  on  a  monument,  wishing  you  would  come  up." 

"  Did  you  want  me,  then  ?" 

"  When  do  I  not  want  you  ?" 

]!^athalie  laughed,  but  she  also  blushed.  "  Then  you 
should  have  gone  in  search  of  me,  sir.  Mrs,  Leroy  wants 
to  go  home  now,  and  I  must  go  with  her." 

"  But  not  just  yet.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you, 
J^athalie." 

And  so  here,  in  the  hot  warmth  of  the  red  sunset,  the 
old,  old  story  was  told — the  story  that  has  been  told  over 
and  over  again  since  the  world  began,  and  will  be  told 
until  its  end,  and  yet  is  ever  new.  The  story  to  which 
two  little  words,  yes  or  no,  ends  so  ecstatically,  or  gives 
the  deathblow.  It  was  yes  this  time  ;  and  when  Nathalie 
Marsh,  half  an  hour  after,  went  homo  with  Mrs.  T.ei'oy,  she 
was  wondering  if  there  was  one  among  all  those  thousands 
— one  in  all  the  wide  world — as  happy  as  she  ! 

The  last  red  glimmer  of  the  sunset  had  faded  out  of 
the  sky,  and  the  summer  moon  was  up,  round  and  white 
and  full,  before  the  last  of  the  picnickers  went  home.  And 
in  its  pale  rays,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  a  cigar 
between  his  lips.  Captain  Cavendish  went  home  with 
Cherrie  Nettleby. 


113  FAST    AND    LOOSE. 

CHAPTER  X. 

FAST   AND   LOOSE. 

r^^mlSS  NATHALIE  MARSH  was  not  the  only 
f^l^^M-i  J^^^S  lady -wlio  received  a  proposal  that  mera- 
iaia^'^  orablc  picnic-day.  Flashing  in  and  out  among 
rMipjStJI  the  other  belles  of  Speckport,  and  eclipsing 
them  all  as  she  went,  the  belle  of  the  bourgeois, 
par  excellence,  came  Miss  Cherrie  Kettleby,  quite  dazzling 
to  look  at  in  a  pink  and  white  plaid  silk,  a  white  lace 
mantle,  the  blue  parasol  you  wot  of,  the  turban-hat,  with 
a  long  white  feather  streaking  round  it,  and  the  colored 
white  lace  vail  over  her  blooming  brunette  face.  Miss 
Nettleby  had  fawn-colored  kid  gloves,  an  embroidered 
kerchief  sticking  out  of  her  pocket ;  and,  to  crown  all,  two 
or  three  yards  oi  gold  chain  around  her  neck,  and  hanging 
ever  so  far  below  her  waist.  An  overgrown  locket  and  a 
camelian  cross  dangled  from  the  chain ;  and  no  giddy 
young  peacock  ever  strutted  about  prouder  of  its  tail  than 
did  the  little  black-eyed  belle  of  these  glittering  fetters. 
She  had  only  received  the  chain,  and  locket,  and  cross  the 
night  before ;  they  had  come  in  a  box,  with  a  huge  bouquet, 
under  the  weight  of  which  a  small  black  boy  staggered, 
with  the  compliments  of  Captain  Cavendish,  and  would 
Miss  Nettleby  do  him  the  honor  of  accepting  them  ?  !Net- 
tlcl)y  did  him  the  honor,  and  was  not  able  to  sleep  a  wink 
all  night  for  rapture.  A  gold  chain  had  been  the  desire 
of  her  heart  for  many  and  many  a  day ;  and,  at  last,  some 
good  fairy  had  taken  pity  on  her  and  sent  it,  with  the 
handsomest  man  in  Speckport  for  her  ambassador.  Cher- 
ric's  ecstasies  are  not  to  be  described ;  a  chain  from  any 
one  would  have  been  a  delightful  gift ;  but  from  Captain 
Cavendish,  one  smile  from  whom  Cherrie  would   have 

given  uU  the  rest  of  her  admirers  for,  delightedly.     She 
ad  hugged  Ann  in  her  transports,  until  that  young  per- 
son, breaking  indignantly  from  her,  demanded  to  know  if 


FAST    AND    LOOSE.  113 

ehe  had  gone  mad ;  and  she  had  dressed  for  the  picnic,  ex- 
pecting to  have  the  young  Englishman  devotedly  by  her 
side  the  whole  day  long,  before  the  aggravated  and  envious 
eyes  of  all  Speckport.  Eut  Cherrie  had  never  made  a 
greater  mistake  in  all  her  life  ;  the  blue  parasol,  the  pink 
silk,  the  Avhite'lace  mantle,  and  fawn-coloi"ed  kid  gloves 
wei-e  powerless  to  charm — Captain  Cavendish  never  came 
near  her.  He  har'  not  come  at  all  until  late,  and  then  he 
had  driven  in  in  the  McGregor  barouche,  with  the  heiress 
of  that  house  by  his  side,  resplendent  to  look  at ;  and  he 
had  walked  about  with  her,  and  with  Miss  Laura  Blair, 
and  Miss  Marsh,  and  sundry  other  young  ladies,  a  step  or 
two  higher  uj)  the  ladder  of  life  than  Miss  Nettleby,  but 
he  had  not  once  walked  with  her.  He  had  passed  her  two 
or  three  times,  as  he  could  not  very  well  help  doing,  since 
she  had  put  herself  straight  in  his  way ;  and  he  had 
nodded  and  smiled,  and  walked  deliberately  on.  Cheme 
could  have  cried  with  chagrin  ;  but  she  didn't,  not  wishing 
to  redden  her  eyes  and  swell  l:er  nose  there,  and  she  con- 
soled herself  by  flirting  outrageously  with  everybody  who 
would  be  flirted  with. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  Cherrie  began  to  experience 
that  fatigue  which  iive  or  six  hours'  dancing  in  a  blazing 
July  sun  is  apt  to  engender,  and  informed  her  partner  in 
the  quadrille  she  was  roasted  to  death.  The  partner — who 
was  Mr.  Charles  Marsh,  and  who  had  been  her  most  de- 
voted all  day — was  leaning  against  a  stout  elderly  gentle- 
man as  against  a  post,  fanning  himself  with  his  straw 
wideawake,  leisurely  set  that  headpiece  ddeways  on  his 
brown  locks  and  presented  his  arm. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come  to  that  by-and-by,  Miss 
Nettleby,  in  spite  of  your  love  of  dancing.  Quadrilles  are 
all  veiy  well  in  December,  but  I  can't  say  that  I  fancy 
them  in  the  dog-days.  Suppose  we  go  down  to  the  shore 
and  get  a  whiii"  of  fresh  air." 

Miss  Nettleby  put  her  fawn-colored  kid-glove  inside 
Mr.  Marsh's  coat-sleeve,  and  poising  her  azure  parasol  in 
the  other  hand,  strolled  with  him  to  the  beach.  .  On  their 
way,  Nathalie,  standing  with  Captain  Locksley,  young 
McGrcgoi',  and  a  number  of  other  g(^ntlemen  and  ladies, 


114  FABT    AND    LOOSE. 

espied  them,  and  lier  color  rose  and  her  blue  eyes  flashed 
at  the  sight. 

'"  Egad  !  I  think  they'll  make  a  match  of  it !"  laughed 
Lockslej.  "  Charley  seems  to  be  completely  taken  in  tov; 
by  that  flyaway  Cherrie." 

Nathalie  said  nothing,  but  her  brow  contracted  omi- 
nously as  she  turned  impatiently  away. 

'•  Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  the  Reverend  Augustus  Tod ; 
"  it's  the  fashion  to  go  with  Cheii'ie,  and  Charley  is  roadj 
to  follow  fashion's  lead.  The  little  girl  will  settle  down 
some  day,  I  dare  say,  into  a  sensible,  hard-working  fisher- 
man's wife." 

Even  ISTathalie  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Miss  Nettleby 
hard-working  and  sensible ;  and  that  young  lady  and  her 
escort  sauntered  leisui'ely  on  to  the  breezy  seashore.  The 
sun  was  dipping  behind  the  western  waves,  the  sky  all 
flushed  and  radiant  with  the  scarlet  and  golden  glory  of 
its  decline,  the  blue  sea  itself  flooded  with  crimson  radi- 
ance. Even  Mr.  Marsh  was  moved  to  admiration  of  its 
gorgeous  splendor. 

"  Neat  thing  in  the  way  of  simsets,  Cherrie,"  he  re- 
marked, taking  out  a  cigar,  and  lighting  it. 

"  What  a  nice  magenta  color  them  clouds  is !"  said 
Miss  Nettleby,  admiringly ;  "  they  would  make  a  lovely 
dress  trimmed  with  black  braid.  And  that  mauve  cloud 
over  there  with  the  yellow  edge,  I  should  like  to  have  a 
scarf  of  that." 

"  "Well,"  said  Charley,  "  I  can't  get  you  the  mauve 
cloud,  but  if  there's  a  scarf  at  all  like  it  in  Speckport  you 
shall  have  it.  By  the  way,  Clierrie,  where  did  you  get 
that  chain  ?" 

"  You  didn't  give  it  to  me,  anyhow,"  rephed  Miss 
Kcttleby,  tossing  her  turban.  "  I  might  wait  a  long  time 
for  anything  before  I  got  it  from  you." 

"  1  didn  t  know  you  wanted  one,  or  I  might.  I  wish 
you  M'ouldn't  take  presents  from  anybody  but  me, 
Cherrie." 

"  From  anybody  but  you !"  retorted  Cherrie,  with 
scorn.  "  I'd  like  to  know  the  time  you  gave  me  anything, 
Charley  Marsh  ?" 


FAST    AND    LOOSE.  116 

"  Come  now,  Clierrie,  I  don't  want  to  be  mean,  but 
that's  a  little  too  bad !" 

"  I  suppose  you're  hinting  at  that  coral  set  you  sent 
me  last  week  ?"'  said  Cherrie,  in  a  resentful  tone.  "  But, 
I  can  tell  yon,  there's  lots  of  folks,  not  a  thousand  miles 
off,  would  be  glad  to  give  me  ten  times  as  much  if"  1  would 
take  it." 

"  Don't  take  their  gifts,  Cherrie ;  there's  a  good  girl ; 
it's  not  ladylike,  you  know  ;  and  some  day  you  shall  have 
whatever  3'ou  want — when  I  am  rich  and  you  are  my  wife, 
Cherrie." 

"  The  idea !"  giggled  Cherrie,  her  color  rising,  "  your 
wife,  indeed ;  I  think  I  see  myself !" 

"  Wouldn't  you  have  me,  Cherrie  ?" 

He  was  still  smoking,  and  still  looking  at  the  sunset — 
not  seeing  it,  however.  Poor  Charle}''  Mai-sh,  light  as 
was  his  tone,  was  exceedingly  in  earnest.  Miss  Nettleby 
stole  a  glance  at  him  from  under  the  blue  parasol,  not 
quite  certain  whether  he  were  in  jest  or  in  earnest,  and 
her  silly  little  heart  beating  a  trifle  faster  than,  was  its 
wont. 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Marsh,"  said  the  young  lady,  after  a 
moment's  deliberation,  thinking  it  best  to  stana  on  her 
dignity,  "  you  think  it  a  fine  thing  to  make  fun  of  me ; 
but  I  can  tell  you  I  ain't  going  to  stand  it,  if  you  are  a 
doctor,  and  me  only  a  gardener's  daugbter.  I  think  you 
might  find  something  else  to  amuse  you." 

"  I'll  take  my  oath,  Cherrie,"  said  Charley,  throwing 
his  cigar  over  the  bank,  "  I  never  was  so  much  in  earnest 
in  all  my  life." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Nettleby. 

"What's  the  reason  you  don't?  Haven't  I  been 
going  with  you  long  enough  ?  What  did  you  suppose  I 
meant  ?" 

"  I  didn't  suppose  nothing  at  all  about  it.  You  aren't 
the  only  one  that  pays  attention  to  me." 

"No;  but  I  don't  think  any  of  the  othei-s  mean^y- 
thing.     I  intend  to  marry  yon,  Cherrie,  if  you'll  consent." 

Cherrie  tossed  her  turban  disdainfully,  but  in  her  secret 
heajt  she  was  in  raptures.     JSFot  that  she  meant  to  accept 


116  FAST    Aim    LOOSE. 

hira  just  then,  with  Captain  Cavendish  in  the  background ; 
but  neither  had  she  the  slightest  intention  of  refusing  him. 
The  handsome  Englishman  had  given  her  a  gold  cJiain,  to 
be  sure,  but  then  he  had  also  given  her  the  cold  shoulder 
all  that  day ;  and  if  things  did  not  turn  out  with  him  as 
she  coald  wish,  Charley  Marsh  would  do  as  a  dernier  re- 
sort. Cherrie  liked  Charley,  and  he  could  make  her  a 
lady ;  and  if  she  failed  in  becoming  Mrs.  Cavendish,  it 
would  be  a  very  nice  thing  to  become  Mi"s.  Marsh,  and 
half  the  young  ladies  in  Speckport  would  be  dying  of 
envy.  Cherrie  thought  all  this  in  about  two  seconds  and 
a  half. 

"  Well,  Cherrie,  have  you  nothing  to  say  ?"  inquired 
Charley,  rather  anxiously. 

"  Mr.  Marsh,"  said  Miss  Nettleby,  with  dignity,  re- 
membering how  the  heroine  of  the  last  novel  she  had  read 
had  answered  in  a  similar  case,  "  I  require  time  to  pon — 
ponder  over  it.  On  some  other  occasion,  when  I  have 
seriously  rellected  on  it,  you  shall  have  my  answer." 

Mr.  Marsh  stood  aghast  for  a  moment,  staling  at  the 
young  lady,  and  then  went  oif  into  a  lit  of  uproarious 
laughter. 

"  Well,"  demanded  Cherrie,  facing  round,  rather  fierce- 
ly, "  and  what  are  you  laughing  at,  sir  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  (Dherrie,"  said  Charley,  re- 
covering from  his  paroxysm  ;  "  but  really  you  did  that  so 
well  that  I " 

Charley  came  near  going  off  again ;  but,  seeing  the 
black  eyes  flashing,  recovered  himself. 

"  Come,  Cherrie,  never  mind  Laura-Matilda  speeches, 
but  tell  me,  like  a  sensible  little  girl,  that  you  like  me, 
and  by-and-by  will  be  my  wife." 

"  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort !"  cried  Miss  Nettleby,  in 
a  state  of  exasperation,  "  either  now  or  at  any  other  time, 
if  I  don't  choose.  You'll  just  wait  for  yom*  answer,  or  go 
without." 

S)ie  sailed  away  as  she  spoke,  leaving  Charley  too 
much  taken  aback,  not  to  say  morritied,  to  follow  her, 

"  Hang  it !"  was  Mr.  Mai'sli's  exclamation,  as  he  turned 
in  an  opposite  direction ;  "  the  idea  of  getting  such  an 


FAST    Am)    LOOSE.  117 

answer  from  tliat  girl!  What  would  Natty  say?  She 
would  thiuk  it  bad  enough  my  proposing  at  all,  but  to  get 
such  a  reply." 

Yet,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  chagrin,  he  laughed  again 
at  t}i-2  recollection  of  Miss  Nettlchy's  speech — careless 
Chai'ley,  who  never  let  anything  trouble  him  long. 

"  She'll  come  to  it,  I  dare  say,"  he  reflected,  as  he  went 
along,  "  and  I  can  wait.  I  do  like  her,  she's  such  a  pretty 
little  thing,  and  good,  too,  in  the  main,  though  rather 
frivolous  on  the  surface.  "Well,  Miss  Rose,  ho\V*  are  you 
enjoying  yourself?" 

Miss  Rose's  fair,  sweet  face  was  rather  a  striking  con- 
trast after  Cherrie's,  but  Charley  was  not  thinking  of  that, 
as  he  offered  her  his  arm.  Cherrie  in  the  distance  saw 
the  act,  and  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy, 

"  He's  gone  o£E  with  that  pale-faced  school-mistress, 
now,"  she  thought,  resentfully.  "  I  dare  say  she'd  be  glad 
to  catch  him,  if  slie  could.     Oh  !" 

She  stopped  short  with  an  exclamation  lialf  suppressed. 
She  had  come  upon  Captain  Cavendish  leaning  against  a 
tall  tree,  and  talking  to  Nathalie  Marsh.  Another  jealous 
pang  pierced  the  frivolous  heart,  and — I  am  sorry  to  tell 
it — she  crept  in  close  under  the  tree,  with  the  blue  parasol 
furled,  and — jq?>,  she  did — she  listened.  Listened  for  over 
twenty  minutes,  her  color  coming  and  going,  her  breath 
bated,  her  hands  clenched.  Then  she  fluttered  hurriedly 
off,  just  in  time  to  escape  them,  as  they  walked  away, 
plighted  lovers. 

There  was  a  little  clump  of  cedar-bushes,  forming  a 
sort  of  dell,  up  the  side  of  the  bank.  Cherrie  Nettleby 
fell  down  here  in  the  tall  grass,  dashing  the  blue  parasol 
down  beside  her,  crumpling  the  turban,  soiling  the  white 
feather,  and  smearing  the  pink  dress,  tore  off  the  gold 
chain,  and  bm'st  into  such  a  passion  of  spiteful,  jealous,  and 
enraged  tears,  as  she  had  never  before  shed  in  her  life. 
To  think  that  all  her  hopes  should  have  come  to  this ;  that 
the  gold  chain  was  only  a  glittering  delusion  ;  all  his  pretty 
speeches  and  lover-like  attentions  only  hollow  cheats,  and 
Nathalie  Marsh  going  to  be  his  u'ifc  1     Cherrie  seized  the 


118  FAST    AND    LOOSE. 

chain  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  as  she  thought  of  it,  and 
hurled  it  over  the  bank. 

"  The  hateful,  lying,  deceitful  scamp,"  she  passionate- 
ly cried.  "  I  hate  him,  and  I'll  go  and  marry  Charley 
Marsh,  just  for  spite." 

Charley  was  not  hard  to  find.  He  was  playing  quoits 
with  a  lot  of  other  young  Speckportians  ;  and  Miss  Catty 
Clowrie  was  standing  gazing  admiringly  on,  and  ready  to 
talk  to  him  between  whiles.  Cherrie  tapped  him  on  the 
arm  with  her  parasol,  and  looked  shylv  up  in  his  face 
with  a  rosy  blush.  But  the  shy  look  and  the  blush  were 
exceedingly  well  got  np,  and  Charley  dropped  the  quoits 
with  a  delighted  face. 

"  Cherrie  1  what  is  it?  Have  you  made  up  your  mind, 
then?" 

"  Yes,  Charley !  You  didn't  believe  I  was  in  earnest 
that  time,  did  you  ?  I  do  like  you,  and  I  will  be  your 
wife  as  soon  as  ever  you  like." 

Did  Miss  Catty  Clowrie,  standing  unheeded  by,  with 
ears  as  sharp  as  lances,  hear  this  very  straightforward 
avowal  ?  She  had  flashed  a  keen,  quick  glance  from  one 
to  the  other ;  had  dropped  her  vail  suddenly  over  her  face, 
and  turned  away.     Neither  noticed  her. 

Charley  was  in  raptures,  and  might  have  fallen  on 
Miss  JS^ettleby  and  embraced  her  there  and  then,  only 
that  before  that  maiden  had  quite  finished  speaking, 
Nathalie  confronted  them,  her  face  haughty,  her  step 
ringing,  her  voice  imperious. 

"  Charley,  Mrs.  Leroy  is  going  home,  and  desires  you 
to  come  immediately  and  assist  Mr.  Blake." 

"  Oh,  bother !"  cried  Charley,  politely,  "  let  her  get 
some  of  the  other  fellows ;  I  can't  go." 

"  Charley !" 

"  Why  can't  she  get  McGregor,  or  some  of  the  rest  ?" 
Slid  Charley,  impatiently ;  "  don't  you  see  I'm  playing 
quoits,  Natty  ?" 

"  I  see  you're  doing  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir,  and  I  in- 
sist on  you  coming  this  instant !  Don't  trouble  yom'self 
about  Miss  Nettleby,  she  has  legions  of  adorers  here,  who 
will  only  be  too  happy  to  attend  lier  home." 


FA3T    AND    LOOSE.  119 

Miss  Marsli  swept  away  like  a  young  queen ;  Iier  violet 
eyes  Hashing,  her  perfect  lips  curling.  Charley  turned  to 
follow,  saying,  hurriedly,  as  he  went : 

"  I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  Cherrie,  wait  for  me 
here." 

"Proud,  hateful  thing!"  exclaimed  Cherrie,  apos- 
trophizing the  receding  form  of  Miss  Marsh ;  "  she  looked 
at  me  that  time  as  if  she  scorned  to  touch  me !  Wait  un- 
til I  am  her  brother's  wife,  we  will  see  who  will  put  on 
mistress."  From  where  she  stood,  Cherrie  could  see  the 
party  for  Rcdmon  come.  Charley  and  Val  Blake  wheeled 
Mrs.  Leroy  m  her  chair  of  state  over  the  grass,  that 
mummy  having  consented  to  be  exlmmed  for  the  occa- 
sion, and  having  been  the  chief  curiosity  and  attraction 
of  the  picnic.  Nathalie  walked  on  one  side,  and  Midge 
on  the  other,  but  Captain  Cavendish  did  not  make  one  of 
the  party  now,  for  the  moment  they  were  out  of  sight, 
that  gallant  officer  hurriedly  walked  deliberatelv  up  to 
her.  Cherrie  tossed  her  turban  again,  and  curled  her 
lip  suspiciously,  not  deigning  to  notice  him  by  so  much  as 
a  glance. 

"  Come,  Cherrie,  what's  the  matter  ?"  he  began, 
in  a  free  and  easy  way;  '*how  have  I  got  into  dis- 
grace ?" 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Captain  Cavendish,  is  it  ?"  said  Cherrie, 
loftily,  condescending  to  become  aware  of  his  presence, 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Nonsense,  Cherrie!  What  is  the  matter?  Come, 
now,  be  reasonable,  and  tell  me  what  I  have  done." 

"  You  haven't  done  anytliing  to  me,"  quite  frigidly, 
though ;  "  how  could  you  V 

"That's  precisely  what  I  want  to  know.  Wliere 
i.s  that  chain  I  saw  aroimd  your  neck  a  short  time 
ago?" 

"  In  my  pocket.  Yon  had  better  take  it  back  again. 
I  don't  want  it." 

Captain  Cavendish  stared.  Miss  Nettleby,  grasping 
the  parasol  firmly,  though  the  sun  liad  gone  do\vn,  and 
the  moon  was  rising,  with  a  very  becoming  glow  in  her 
cheeks,   and   bright,   angry  light  in  her    eyes,    looked 


12C  FAST    AND    LOOSS. 

Btraiglit  before  her,  and  addressed  empty  space  when  she 
spoke. 

"  There  is  some  mystery  here,  and  I  am  going  to  get 
at  the  bottom  of  it,"  he  said,  resolutely ;  "  Cherrie,  let  me 
go  home  with  y  5u,  and  see  if  we  cannot  clear  it  up  by  the 
way." 

"With  me  ?"  said  Cherrie,  stepping  back,  and  looking 
at  him  disdainfully ;  "  why,  what  would  Miss  Marsh  say 
to  that  ?" 

A  light  broke  on  the  captain. 

"  Miss  Marsh !  Why,  what  have  I  to  do  with  Miss 
Marsh?" 

"  A  great  deal,  I  should  think,  after  what  passed  be- 
tween you  over  there  on  the  beach." 

"  Cherrie !  where  were  you  ?    Not  listening  ?" 

"  I  was  passing,"  said  Miss  Nettleby,  stimy,  "  and  I 
chanced  to  overhear.  It  wasn't  my  fault  if  you  spoke 
out  loud." 

Even  Captain  Cavendish  stood  for  a  moment  non- 
plussed by  this  turn  of  affairs.  He  had  no  desire  his  pro- 
posal to  Miss  Marsh  should  become  public  propei-ty,  for 
many  reasons;  and  he  knew  he  might  as  well  have  pub- 
lished it  in  the  Speckport  Spouter,  as  let  Cherrie  find  it 
out.  Another  thing  he  did  not  want — to  lose  Cherrie ; 
she  was  a  great  deal  too  pretty,  and  he  fancied  her  a  great 
deal  too  much  for  that. 

"  Cherrie,  that  was  all  an — an  accident !  I  didn't 
mean  anything !  There  are  too  many  people  looking  at 
us  here,  to  talk ;  but,  if  you  will  go  home,  I  will  explain 
by  the  way." 

"No,"  said  Cherrie,  standing  resolutely  on  her  dignity, 
but  trying  to  keep  from  crying,  "I  can't.  I  promised 
Mr.  Marsh  to  wait  for  him." 

"Oh,  confound  Mr.  Marsh!  Come  with  me,  and 
never  mind  him." 

"  No,  Captain  Cavendish  ;  1  think  I'll  wait.  Charley 
thinks  more  of  me  than  you  do,  since  he  asked  me  to 
raarry  him  this  afternoon,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it." 

Captain  Cavendish  looked  at  her.  He  knew  Cherrie's 
rognvd  for  truth   was  nor   tlio  most   stringent ;  that  she 


FAST    AND    LOOSE.  131 

wonld  invent,  and  tell  a  fib  with  all  the  composure  in 
life,  but  she  was  palpably  telling  no  falsehood  this  time. 
He  saw  it  in  the  triamphaiit  flash  of  her  black  eyes,  in 
the  flush  of  her  face,  and  set  his  teeth  inwardly  with 
anger  and  mortification.  "  How  blessings  brighten  as 
they  take  their  flight!"  Never  had  Cherrie  Nettleby 
looked  80  beautiful;  never  had  her  eyes  been  so  much 
like  black  diamonds  as  now,  when  their  light  seemed  set- 
ting to  him  forever-  Captain  Cavendish  believed  her, 
and  resolved  not  to  lose  her,  in  spite  of  all  the  Charley 
Mai"slies  in  the  world. 

"  So  Marsh  has  asked  you  to  be  his  wife,  has  he  ? 
Now,  Cherrie,  suppose  I  asked  you  the  same  question, 
what  would  yon  say  ?" 

"You  asked  Miss  Marsh  to-day,  and  I  think  that's 
enough." 

"1  did  not  mean  it,  Cherrie.  I  swear  I  did  not !  I 
am  fifty  times  as  much  in  love  with  you  as  I  am  with 
her." 

And  Captain  Cavendish  was  speaking  truth.  Humi- 
liating as  it  is  to  say  so  of  one's  heroine,  the  black-eyed 
grisette  was  a  hundred  times  more  to  his  taste  than  the 
blue-eyed  lady.  Could  they  have  changed  places,  he 
would  have  married  Cherrie  off-hand,  and  never  given 
one  sigh  to  Nathalie.  It  was  the  prospective  fortune  of 
that  young  lady  he  was  in  love  with. 

"  Cherrie,  you  don't  believe  me,"  he  said,  seeing  in- 
credulity in  her  face,  "but  I  swear  I  am  telling  the 
truth.  Let  me  prove  it — give  up  Chai-ley  Marsh  and 
marry  me !" 

"  Captain !" 

"  I  mean  it !  Which  of  us  do  you  like  best — ^Marsh 
or  I?" 

"  You  know  well  enough,"  said  Cherrie,  crying.  "  I 
like  you  ever  so  much  the  best ;  but  when  I  heard  you 

asking  Miss  Natty,   I — I "   here    the    voice    broke 

down  in  good  earnest,  and  Cherrie's  tears  began  to 
flow. 

Captain  Cavendish  looked  hurriedly  about  him.  The 
last  rays  of  the  sunset  had  burned  themselves  out,  and 
G 


122  FAST    A2fD    LOOSE. 

the  moon  was  making  for  herself  a  track  of  silver  sheen 
over  the  sea.  The  crowd  were  flpcking  homeward,  tired 
out,  and  there  was  no  one  near ;  but  in  the  distance  his 
eagle  eye  saw  Charley  Marsh  striding  over  the  dewy 
evening  grass.  Poor  Charley !  The  captain  drew  Cherrie's 
arm  inside  his  own,  and  walked  her  rapidly  away. 
They  were  out  on  the  Redmon  road  before  either  spoke 
again. 

"  I  did  not  mean  one  word  of  what  I  said  to  Miss 
Marsh.  But  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,  Cherrie,  if  you'll  never 
mention  it  again." 

"  I  won't,"  said  Cherrie.     "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  should  Kke  to  sliare  her  fortune — that  is,  you  and 
I — and  if  she  thinks  I  am  in  love  with  her,  I  stand  a  good 
chance.  I  should  like  to  be  richer  than  I  am,  for  your 
sake,  you  know ;  so  you  must  not  be  jealous.  I  don't 
care  a  straw  for  her,  but  for  her  money." 

"  And  you  do  care  for  me  ?" 

"  You  know  I  do !  Are  you  ready  to  give  up  Char- 
ley, and  marry  me?" 

"  Oh  !"  said  Cherrie,  and  it  was  all  she  replied  ;  but  it 
was  uttered  so  rapturously  that  it  perfectly  satisfied  him. 

"  Then  that  is  settled  ?  Let  me  see — suppose  we  get 
married  next  week,  or  the  week  after  ?" 

"  Oh  !  Captain  I"  cried  the  enraptured  Chei*rie. 

"  Then  that  is  settled  too.  What  a  little  darling  you 
are,  Cherrie  !  And  now  I  have  only  one  request  to  make 
of  vou — that  you  will  not  breathe  one  word  of  this  to  a 
living  soul.     Not  a  syllable — do  you  understand?" 

"  VVhy?"  said  Cherrie,  a  little  disappointed. 

' '  My  dear  girl,  it  would  ruin  us  both !  We  will  be 
maiTied  priva.tely — no  one  shall  know  it  but  the  clergyman 
and— Mr.  Blake." 

"Mr.  Blake?    Val?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  gravely,  "  he  shall  he 
present  at  the  ceremony,  but  not  another  being  in  Speck- 
port  must  find  it  out.  If  they  do,  Cherrie,  I  will  have  to 
leave  you  forever.  There  are  many  reasons  for  this  that 
I  cannot  now  explain.  You  will  continue  to  livo  at 
home,  and  no  one  but  ourselves  shall  be  the  wiser.   There, 


CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH.  128 

don't  look  60  disappointed ;  it  won't  last  long,  my  darling. 
Let  Charley  still  tliink  himself  your  lover;  but,  mind 
you,  keep  him  at  a  respectful  distance,  Cherrie." 

They  reached  the  cottage  at  last,  but  it  took  them  a 
very  long  time.  Captain  Cavendish  walked  back  to 
Speckport  in  the  moonlight,  smoking,  and  with  an  odd 
little  smile  on  his  handsome  face, 

"  I'll  do  it,  too,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  the  moon,  as 
if  informing  that  luminary  in  confidence.  "There's  a 
law  against  bigamy,  I  believe  ;  but  I'll  marry  them  both, 
the  maid  first,  the  mistress  afterward." 


CHAPTER    XL 

HOW  CAPTAIN  CAVENDISH  MEANT  TO  MABBY  CHER- 

KIE. 

HE  clerk  of  the  weather  in  Speckport  might 
have  been  a  woman,  so  fickle  and  changeable 
in  his  mind  was  he.  You  never  could  put  any 
trust  in  him ;  if  you  did,  you  were  sure  to  be 
taken  in.  A  bleak,  raw,  cheerless,  gloomy 
morning,  making  parlor  tires  pleasant  in  spite  of  its  being 
July,  and  hot  cotfee  as  delicious  a  beverage  as  cool  soda- 
water  had  been  the  day  before  ;  a  morning  not  at  all 
suited  for  constitutionals ;  yet  on  this  cold,  wet,  raw, 
foggy  morning  Charley  Marsh  had  arisen  at  five  o'clock, 
and  gone  off  for  a  walk,  and  was  only  opening  the  front- 
door of  the  little  cottage  as  the  clock  on  the  sitting-room 
mantel  was  chiming  nine.  Breakfast  was  over,  and  there 
was  no  one  in  the  room  but  Mrs.  Marsh,  in  her  shawl  and 
rocker,  beside  the  fire  which  was  burning  in  the  Franklin, 
immersed  ten  fathoms  deep  in  the  adventures  of  a  gentle- 
man, inclosed  between  two  yellow  covers,  and  bearing  the 
euphonious  name  of  "  Rinaldo  Rinaldi."     Miss  Rose  had 


124  CAPTAIN    GAVENDI8E. 

gone  to  scliool,  Betsy  Ann  was  clattering  among  the  pots 
m  the  kitchen  ;  the  breakfast-table  looked  sloppy  and 
littered ;  the  room,  altogether  dreary.  Perhaps  it  was  his 
walk  in  that  cheerless  fog,  but  Chaj-ley  looked  as  dreary 
as  the  room ;  his  bright  face  haggard  and  pale,  his  eyes 
heavy,  and  with  dark  circles  under  them,  bespeaking  a 
sleepless  night.  Mrs.  Marsh  dropped  "  Rinaldo  Rinaldi," 
and  looked  up  with  a  fretful  air. 

"Dear  me,  Charley,  how  late  you  are!  What  will 
Doctor  Leach  say  ?    Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  Out  for  a  walk." 

"Such  a  hateful  morning — it's  enough  to  give  you 
your  death !     Betsy  Ann,  bring  in  the  conee-pot !" 

Betsy  Ann  appeared  with  that  household  god,  and  a 
face  shining  with  smiles  and  yellow  soap,  and  her  mistress 
relapsed  into  "  Rinaldo  Rinaldi "  again.  Charley  seemed 
to  have  lost  his  appetite  as  well  as  liis  spirits.  He  drank 
a  cup  of  coffee,  pushed  the  bread  and  butter  impatiently 
away,  donned  Jiis  hat  and  overcoat,  the  former  pulled 
very  much  over  his  eyes,  and  set  out  for  the  office. 

Charley  had  enough  to  trouble  him.  It  was  not  only 
Cherrie's  desertion,  thougli  that  was  enough,  for  he 
really  loved  the  girl  with  the  whole  fervor  and  strength 
of  a  fresh  young  heart,  and  meant  to  make  her  his  hon- 
ored wife.  He  was  infatuated,  no  doubt ;  he  knew  her 
to  be  illiterate,  silly,  unprincijjled,  false  and  fooUsh,  a 
little  dressy  piece  of  ignorance,  vanity,  selfishness  and 
conceit,  or  might  have  known  it  if  he  chose ;  l)ut  he 
knew,  too,  she  was  a  beautiful,  brilliant,  bewitching  little 
fairy,  with  good-natured  and  generous  impulses  now  and 
then,  and  the  dearest  little  thing  generally  that  ever  was 
bom.  In  short,  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  love  knows 
nothing  about  common  sense ;  so  when  ho  had  seen  her 
walk  off  the  previous  evening  with  Captain  Cavendish, 
and  desert  him,  he  had  leaned  against  a  tree,  feeling — 
heaven  only  knows  how  deeply  and  how  bitterly.  Once 
lie  liad  started  up  to  follow  them,  but  had  stoj^ped — the 
memory  of  a  heavy  debt  contracted  in  Prince  Street, 
i>\ving  to  this  man,  and  hanging  like  an  incubus  about  his 
ii'jck,  night  and  day,  thrust  him  back  as  with  a  hand  of 


CAPTAIN    OAVENDISH.  125 

iron.  He  was  in  the  power  of  the  English  officer,  beyond 
redemption  ;  he  could  not  afford  to  make  him  his  enemy- 
How  that  long  morning  di'agged  on,  Charley  never 
knew ;  certainly  his  medical  studies  did  not  progress 
much.  Poor  and  in  debt,  in  love  and  deserted,  those 
were  the  changes  on  which  his  thoughts  rang.  A  sulky- 
faced  clock,  striking  one,  made  him  start.  It  was  time  to 
go  home  to  dinner,  and  he  arose  and  went  out.  As  he 
opened  the  shop-door,  he  stepped  short.  Tripping  gayly 
along  the  foggy  and  sloppy  streets  came  Cherrie  her- 
self, her  dress  pinned  artistically  up,  to  display  a  bril- 
liant Balmoral  skirt,  of  all  the  coloi-s  of  a  dying  dol- 
phin; her  high-heeled  boots  clinking  briskly  over  the 
pavement.  Cliarley's  foolish  heart  give  a  great  bound, 
and  he  stepped  impulsively  forward,  with  her  name  on 
Ids  Ups. 

"  Cherrie  ?" 

Cherrie  had  not  seen  him  until  he  spoke,  and  she  re- 
coiled with  a  scream. 

"  Sir  !  Charley  Marsh  !  how  you  scare  me  I  I  wish 
you  woiddn't  shout  out  so  sudden  and  frighten  me  out  of 
my  wits !" 

"  You  may  spare  your  hysterics,  Cherrie,"  said  Char- 
ley, rather  coldly  ;  "  you  could  stand  more  than  that  if 
Captain  Cavendish  was  in  question." 

Cherrie  laughed,  and  tripped  along  beside  him  vnth. 
dancing  eyes.  She  liked  Charley,  though  in  a  far  less 
degree  than  the  dashing  and  elegant  young  officer,  and 
was  in  a  particidarly  good-natured  state  of  mind  that 
moraing.  There  was  more  than  her  liking  for  Charley 
to  induce  her  to  keep  good  friends  with  him — the  warning 
of  the  captain  and  her  own  prudence.  Cherrie,  faithless 
herself,  had  no  very  profound  trust  in  her  fellow-crea- 
tures. Until  she  was  actually  the  captain's  wife,  she  waa 
not  sure  of  him  ;  there  is  many  a  slip,  she  knew ;  and  if 
he  failed  her,  Charley  was  the  next  best  in  Speckport. 
Therefore,  at  his  insinuation,  she  only  tossed  her  turbaned 
head  after  her  coquettish  fashion,  until  all  her  black  curls 
danced  a  fandango,  and  showed  her  brilliant  whito  teeth 
in  u  gay  little  laugh. 


'IW  CAPTAIN    OAVENDIBK 

"  Oh,  you're  jealous,  are  yon  ?"  she  said.  **  I  thought 
you  would  be !" 

«  Cherrie !" 

*' There,  now,  Charley,  don't  be  cross  I  I  just  did  it 
to  make  you  jealous,  and  nothing  else !  I  was  mad  at  you 
for  going  o£E  the  way  you  did !" 

"  You  know  I  could  not  help  it !" 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  not.  I'm  nobody  beside  Miss  Natty  I 
So,  when  Captain  Cavendish  came  up  and  asked  leave  to 
see  me  home,  I  just  let  liim !  I  thought  it  wouldn't  do 
you  any  harm  to  be  a  little  jealous,  you  know,  Charley." 

Charley's  hopes  were  hi^h  again ;  but  his  heart  had 
been  too  deeply  pained  for  him  to  forget  its  soreness  at 
one  encouraging  word.  Something  wanting  in  Cherrie, 
he  could  not  quite  define  what,  had  often  struck  him  be- 
fore, but  never  so  palpably  as  now.  That  want  was  prin- 
ciple, of  which  the  black-eyed  young  lady  was  totally 
devoid ;  and  he  was  vaguely  realizing  that  trusting  to  her 
was  much  like  leaning  on  a  broken  reed. 

Cherrie,  a  good  deal  piqued,  and  a  little  alarmed  by 
his  silence,  looked  at  him  askance. 

"  Oh,  you're  sulky,  are  you  ?  Yery  well,  sir,  you  can 
just  please  youi-self.  If  you've  a  mind  to  get  mad  for 
nothing,  you  may." 

"  Clierrie,"  Charley  said,  quite  gravely  for  him,  "  do 
you  think  you  did  right  last  night  ?  After  promising  to 
be  my  wife,  to  go  ofE  and  leave  me  as  you  did  ?" 

"I  didn't,  either!"  retorted  Cherrie;  "it  was  you 
went  off  and  left  me." 

"  That  was  no  fault  of  mine,  and  I  didn't  go  with  an- 
other young  lady.  Cherrie,  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
you  will  let  Captain  Caveudish  see  you  home  no  more." 

"  I  shall  promise  nothing  of  the  sort !"  cried  Cherrie, 
with  shrill  indignation.  "  liecause  I  promised  to  marry 
you,  1  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  live  like  a  nun  for 
the  rest  of  my  life,  and  not  even  look  at  any  other  man. 
I'll  just  do  as  I  did  before,  Mr.  Charley  Mai*sh ;  and  if 
von  ain't  satisfied  with  that,  yon  may  go  and  marry  some- 
body else — Miss  Rose,  or  Miss  Clowrie — she'd  have  yon, 
fast  enougli  I" 


OAPTAIN    0AVENDI8K  13? 

"I  don't  want  Miss  Clowrie;  I  only  want  you, 
Cherrie ;  and  if  you  cared  for  me,  you  wouldn't  act  and 
talk  as  you  do." 

Some  of  poor  Charley's  pain  was  in  his  voice  and  it 
tone! led  the^coquette's  frivolous  heart.  She  stopped,  at 
a  dry-goods  store,  for  an  encouraging  word  before 
entering. 

"  You  know  very  well,  Charley,  I  like  you  ever  so 
much — a  great  deal  better  than  I  do  any  one  else  ;  but  I 
can't  help  being  pretty,  and  having  the  young  men  after 
me,  and  I  hate  to  be  cross  to  them,  too.  Come  up  to 
Redraon  this  evening,  I  haven't  time  to  stop  to  talk 
now." 

With  which  the  little  hypocrite  made  a  smiling 
obeisance,  and  darted  into  the  shop,  leaving  her  lover 
to  pursue  his  homeward  way,  a  little  lighter  in  the  region 
of  tlie  heart,  but  still  dissatisfied  and  mistrustful. 

Tlie  afternoon  was  as  long  and  dreary  as  the  morning. 
Cliarley  sat  in  the  dismal  little  back-office,  listening 
listlessly  to  the  customers  coming  in  and  out  of  the 
surgery,  to  buy  Epsom-salts  and  senna,  or  hair-oil  and 
bilious  pills ;  and  the  shopboy  droning  over  a  song-book, 
which  lie  read  half  aloud,  in  a  monotonous  sing-song  way, 
when  alone,  staring  vacantly  at  the  rotten  leaves,  and  bits 
of  chips  and  straw  and  paper  fluttering  about  the  wet 
yard  in  the  chill  afternoon  wind.  And  still  the  fog 
settled  down  thicker,  and  wetter,  and  colder  than  ever ; 
and  when  the  shopboy  came  in  a  little  after  six,  to  light 
the  flaring  gas-jet — it  was  already  growing  dark— Charley 
arose,  drearily,  to  go. 

"  What  a  long  day  it  has  been !"  he  said,  gaping  in 
the  boy's  face  ;  "  it  seems  like  a  week  since  I  got  up  this 
morning.     Where's  the  doctor  ?" 

"  Up  to  Squire  Todd's,  sir.  The  old  gentleman's 
took  bad  again  with  the  gout." 

The  lamps  were  flaring*  through  the  foggy  streets  as 
he  walked  along,  and  the  few  people  abroad  flitted  in  and 
out  of  the  wet  gloom,  like  shadowy  phantoms.  Queen 
Street  was  bright  euousrh  with  the  illumination  from 
shop-windows,  but  the  le^  bi^sy  tlioroughfaivs  looked  dis- 


128  CAPTAIN    CAVEJWISH. 

iiial  and  deserted,  and  the  spectral  passers-by  more 
sliadowj  than  ever.  As  he  was  turning  the  corner  of 
Cottage  Street,  one  of  these  phantoms,  buttoned  up  in. an 
overcoat,  and  bearing  an  umbrella,  accosted  hirr.  in  a 
very  unphantomlike  voice,  and  with  a  very  amphantom- 
like  slap  on  the  shoulder. 

"  How  are  you.  Marsh  ?  I  thought  I  should  come 
upon  you  here !" 

Charley  turned  round,  and,  with  no  particular  ex- 
pression of  rapture,  recognized  Captain  Cavendish. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  said,  coldly  ;  "  were  you  looking 
for  me «" 

The  captain  turned  and  linked  his  arm  within  his 
own. 

"  I  was.  What  became  of  you  last  night  ?  "We 
expected  you  at  Prince  Street." 

"  I  made  another  engagement." 

"  You  will  be  there  to  night,  of  course  ?  I  owe  you 
your  revei^,  you  know." 

"Which  means,"  said  Charley,  with  a  laugh,  that 
sounded  strange  and  bitter  from  him,  "  you  will  get  me 
some  thirty  or  forty  dollars  more  in  your  debt !" 

"  Talking  of  debt,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  in  an  in- 
difEerent  matter-of-fact  tone,  "  could  you  oblige  me  with 
a  trifle  on  account — say  twenty  pounds  ?" 

Charley  silently  produced  his  pocketbook,  and  handed 
over  the  twenty  he  had  received  from  Nathalie  a  few 
days  before.  The  nonchalant  young  officer  pocketed  it 
as  coolly  as  if  it  had  been  twenty  pence. 

"  Thanks !  One  often  needs  a  trifle  of  this  sort  on  an 
occasion.  Is  this  your  house  ?  Who  is  that  playing  ? 
Not  your  sister  ?" 

They  had  halted  in  front  of  the  cottage,  and  could 
\  hear  the  sound  of  the  piano  from  within. 

"  It  is  Miss  Kose,  I  presume,"  said  Charley,  in  the 
same  cold  voice  ;  "  will  you  come  in  ?" 

"  Not  now.  You  will  be  up  at  Prince  Street  for  cer- 
tain then  to-night  ?" 

Charley  nodded,  and  entered  the  house. 

At  her  own  door  stood  Miss  Catty  Clowrie.      She 


CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH.  129 

was  often  standing  there  ;  and  though  she  returned  the 
captain's  bow,  it  was  after  Charley  she  looked  until  he 
disappeared.  There  was  no  one  in  the  sitting-room 
when  he  entered ;  his  mother's  rocking  chair  was  vacant, 
and  Miss  Rose  was  playing  and  singing  in  the  parlor — 
touching  the  keys  so  lightly  and  singing  so  sweetly  that 
it  seemed  more  an  echo  of  tlie  wind  and  waves  than  any- 
thing else.  The  table  was  set  for  tea,  and  Betsy  Ann 
was  scouring  knives  in  the  kitchen,  humming  some  dole- 
ful ditty  at  her  work.  There  was  a  lounge  under  the 
window  overlooking  the  bay,  sullen  and  stormy  to-night. 
Charley  flung  himself  upon  it,  his  arm  across  the  pillow, 
his  face  lying  in  it,  and  listened  in  a  vague  and  dismal 
way  to  the  music.  The  song  was  weird  and  mournful, 
truly  an  echo  of  the  wailing  wind  and  sea. 

"  Come  to  supper,  ma'am !"  at  this  juncture  shrilly 
pealed  the  voice  of  Betsy  Ann  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  to 
some  invisible  person  above;  "^Mr.  Charley's  here,  and 
the  biscuit  is  getting  cold," 

The  song  died  away,  as  if  it  had  drifted  out  on  the 
gale  surging  up  from  the  black  bay,  and  Mrs.  Marsh 
crept  shivering  down  staii-s. 

"  Come  in,  Miss  Rose,"  she  said,  looking  in  at  the 
parlor  door  before  entering  the  room  ;  "tea  is  ready,  and 
Charley  is  here." 

Charley  started  up  ;  and,  as  he  did  so,  the  front  door 
unceremoniously  opened,  and  Nathalie,  Avrapped  in  a 
large  shawl,  and  wearing  a  white  cloud  about  lier  head, 
stepped  in,  to  the  surprise  of  all. 

"  Gracious  me !  Natty !  is  it  you  V  cried  her  mamma, 
in  feeble  consternation,  "  whatever  has  taken  you  out 
such  an  evening?" 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  evening?"  said  Nathalie, 
kissing  her  and  Miss  Rose,  "  A  little  cold  sea-fog  is 
nothing  new,  that  it  should  keep  me  in-doors.  Good 
evening,  Charley," 

"  It's  not  a  good  evening,"  said  Charley ;  "  it's  a  very 
bad  one,  and  you  deserve  to  get  your  death  of  cold  for 
venturing  out  in  it.     Did  the  old  lady  send  you  V 

"  No,  indeed !  I  had  hard  work  to  get  olf .  Is  tea 
6* 


130  CAPTAIN    CAVEIWIsa. 

readj',  mamma  ?  I  have  had  no  dinner,  and  am  ahnoet 
famished." 

Mi"S.  Marsh  was  profuse  in  her  sympathy.  Another 
cup  and  plate  were  laid,  and  tlie  quartet  sat  down  to  tea. 
It  was  wonderful  how  Nathalie's  bright  presence  radiated 
the  before  gloomy  room  ;  the  laughing  light  of  her  violet 
eyes  made  sunshine  of  their  own,  and  all  her  luxuriant 
golden  hair,  falling  loose  and  damp,  in  curls  short  and  long 
around  her  face  and  shoulders,  never  looked  so  much  like 
silky  sunbeams  before. 

"  How  did  you  get  on  in  school  to-day  ?"  she  was 
asking  Miss  Rose ;  "  I  could  not  get  down.  The  picnic 
must  nave  disagreed  with  Mrs.  Leroy ;  for  I  never  saw 
her  so  cross." 

"  I  should  say  all  the  cake,  and  pastry,  and  nastiness 
of  that  sort  she  devoured,  would  have  disagreed  with  a 
horse,"  said  Charley  ;  ''  it  was  a  sight  only  to  see  Laura 
Blair  cramming  her." 

''  I  got  on  very  well,"  answered  Ml>8  Rose,  smiling  at 
Charley's  remark,  whicli  was  perfectly  true  ;  "  but  the  day 
seems  long,  Miss  Marsh,  when  yqu  do  not  visit  us,  and 
the  children  seem  to  think  so  too.  I  have  got  a  ne\r 
music-pupil — little  Vattie  Gates." 

"  You  will  make  your  fortune,  Miss  Rose,  if  you  are 
not  careful,"  said  Charley ;  "  eight  dollars  per  quarter 
from  each  of  those  music-pupils,  beside  your  school-salary. 
What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  it  all  ?" 

"  I  should  say  rather  she  will  work  herself  to  death," 
said  Nathalie.  "  Do  you  want  to  kill  yourself,  Miss  Rose, 
that  you  take  so  many  pupils  ?" 

"  Dear  me  !  I  think  it  agrees  with  her,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Marsh,  languidly,  stirring  her  tea ;  "  she  is  getting 
fat." 

Everybody  laughed.  Miss  Rose  was  not  getting  very 
fat ;  but  she  certainly  had  gained  flesh  and  color  since 
her  advent  in  Speckport,  though  the  small  face  was  still 
rather  pale,  and  the  small  brow  sometimes  too  thoughtful 
and  anxious.  As  they  arose  from  table,  Miss  Clowrie 
came  in  with  her  crotchet ing  to  spend  the  evening,  Natty 
went  \a)  the  piano,  Miss  Rose,  with  some  very  unl'anciful- 


CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH.  181 

looking  -work  in  a  dropsical  work-basket,  sat  down  at  the 
window  to  sew  wJiile  the  last  gray  ray  of  daylight 
lingered  in  the  sky,  and  Charley  lounged  on  the  sofa, 
beside  Catty, 

"  What  are  you  making,  Miss  Rose  ?"  inquired  Miss 
Clowrie,  looking  curiously  at  the  small  black  figure, 
drooping  over  the  work,  at  the  window.  Miss  JRose 
laughed,  and  threaded  her  needle. 

"  You  needn't  ask,"  said  Nathalie ;  "  clothes  for  all  the 

Soor  in  Speckport,  of  course.  Why  don't  you  become  a 
ister  of  Charity  at  once,  Miss  Winnie  ?" 

"  I  came  very  near  it  one  time,"  smiled  Miss  Rose  ; 
"  perhaps  I  may  yet.     I  wish  I  could." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  sincerity  of  her  tone. 
NathaHe  shrugged  her  shouldei's — to  her  it  looked 
like  wishing  for  something  veiy  dreary  and  dismal 
indeed.  The  world  seemed  a  very  bright  and  beautiful 
place  to  the  heiress  of  Redmon  that  foggy  summer  night. 

"  Why  don't  you  become  one,  then  ?"  asked  Catty, 
who  would  have  been  very  glad  of  it ;  "I  should  think 
they  would  be  pleased  to  get  you." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that ;  I  would  be  no  great  acqui- 
sition. But  just  at  present  there  is  a  reason  that  renders 
it  impossible.^' 

Of  course,  no  one  could  ask  the  reason,  though  all 
would  have  Kked  to  know.  When  it  grew  too  dark  to 
scNv  or  play,  the  lamp  was  lit,  and  they  had  cards,  and  it 
was  nine  when  Nathalie  arose  to  go. 

"Couldn't  yoa  stay  all  night,  Katty?"  asked  her 
mother;  "it's  dreadfully  foggy  to  go  up  to  Redmon 
to-niglit." 

"If  it  were  ten  times  as  foggy,  I  should  have  to  go.  I 
don't  mind  it,  though,  in  company  with  Charley  and  an 
umbrella."  , 

She  kissed  them  all  good  night,  even  Catty,  in  the  hap- 
piness of  her  heart ;  and,  wrapped  in  her  shawl  and  cloud, 
she  took  her  brotlier's  ann  and  started.  The  fog  was 
thicker,  and  wetter,  and  colder  than  ever;  the  night  as 
wretched  a  one  for  a  walk  as  could  well  be  imagined,  and 
the  blealv  sea  wind  blew  i-aw  in  their  faces  all  the  way. 


18S  CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH. 

"  How  confoundedly  cold  it  is !"  exclaimed  Charley, 
"  more  like  January  than  July.  You  will  perish,  Natty, 
before  we  get  to  Redmon  !  You  should  not  have  come 
out  this  evening." 

'*  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  Charley,  on  a  very  important 
matter  indeed !" 

Charley  stai*ed  at  her  grave  tone,  but  it  all  flashed  upor 
him  directly.  Nathalie  was  used  to  talk  to  him  more  as 
a  mother  than  a  sister,  in  her  superior  woman's  wisdom, 
and  Charley  was  accustomed  to  take  her  lectui-es  cheerfully 
enough  ;  but  in  the  damp  darkness  his  face  flushed  rebel- 
liously  now. 

He  would  not  speak  again,  and  his  sister,  after  waiting 
a  moment,  broke  the  silence  herself. 

"  It  is  about  that  girl,  Charley  ?" 

"  What  girl  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Marsh,  rather  sulkily. 

"  You  know  well  enough — Cherrie  Nettleby." 

"  Well,  what  of  Cherrie  Nettleby  ?"  this  time  defiantly. 

"  Charley,  what  do  you  mean  by  going  with  her  as  you 
do?" 

"  Nathalie,"  said  Charley,  mimicking  her  tone,  "  what 
do  you  mean  by  going  with  Captain  Cavendish  as  you  do  ?" 

"  My  going  with  Captain  Cavendish  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  it ;  but  if  you  want  to  know  what  I  mean 
— I  mean  to  marry  him !" 

"  Nathalie,  I  don't  want  you  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  that  man,"  Charley  burst  out  passionately.  "He  is 
a  villain !" 

"Charley!" 

"  He  is,  I  tell  you !  You  know  nothing  about  him — I 
do  !     I  tell  you  he  is  a  villain !" 

"  This  is  ungenerous  of  you,  Charley,"  she  calmly  said ; 
"  it  is  cowardly.     Is  not  Captain  Cavendish  your  friend  ?" 

"  A  friend  I  could  throttle  with  the  greatest  pleasure 
in  life !"  exclaimed  Charley,  savagely. 

"What  has  he  doner 

"  More  than  I  would  like  to  tell  you — more  than  you 
would  care  to  hear !  All  I  have  to  say  is,  I  would  rather 
shoot  you  than  see  you  his  wife !" 

"  You  are  slandering  him !"  said  Nathalie,  her  passion 


CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH.  133 

rising  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Yon  are  trying  to  baffle  nie ; 
to  keq)  me  from  talking  of  Clierrie,  but  I'll  not  be  put 
off.      lou  cannot — you  cannot  mean  to  many  that  girl." 

"Natty  look  here,"  he  said,  more  gently,  "I  don't 
want  to  be  disagreeable,  but  I  cannot  be  dictated  to  in 
this !  I  am  i\  man,  and  must  choose  for  myself.  I  have 
obeyed  you  all  my  life  ;  but  in  this  you  must  let  me  be 
my  o^vn  master." 

"  You  know  what  a  name  she  has !  She  is  the  talk  of 
all  Speckport !" 

"  Is  Speckport  ever  done  talking  ?  Wouldn't  it  slan- 
der an  archangel,  if  it  got  the  chance  ?" 

"But  it  is  true  in  this  instance— she  is  all  that  Speck- 
port says — an  idle,  silly,  senseless,  flirty,  foolish,  dressy, 
extravagant  thing !  She  has  nothing  in  the  wide  world  to 
recommend  her  but  her  good  locks." 

"Neither  has  Captain  Cavendish,  if  it  comes  to  that!" 

"  Charley,  it  is  false!  He  is  a  gentleman  by  birth, 
rank,  and  education !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Charley,  bitterly.  "  Nature  did  her  best 
to  make  a  gentleman  of  him,  but  I  know  street-sweepers 
in  Speckport  ten  times  more  of  a  gentleman  than  he !  I 
tell  you  he  is  corrupt  to  the  core  of  his  heart — a  spend- 
thrift and  a  fortune-hunter!  If  you  were  l^jiss  Marsli,  the 
school-teacher,  as  you  were  two  or  three  years  ago,  he 
would  as  soon  ask  Miss  Jo  Blake  to  be  his  wife  as  you !" 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Nathalie,  quite  calmly ;  "  he 
may  not  be  able  to  afford  the  luxury  of  a  penniless  bride, 
and  for  all  that  be  no  fortune-hunter.  You  can't  shake 
my  faith  in  him,  Charley !" 

"  You  are  blind  !"  Charley  cried,  vehemently.  "  I  am 
telling  you  Heaven's  truth,  Natty,  with  no  other  motive 
than  your  good !" 

"we  will  drop  the  subject,"  said  Nathalie,  loftily, 
"  and  talk  of  you  and  Cherrie  Nettleby  I" 

"  We'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  Charley,  reso- 
lutely ;  "  go  your  own  way,  Natty,  if  you  will,  and  I  will 
go  mine  !■  The  one  marriage  can  Ihj  no  madder  than  the 
other !" 

"And  you  will  really  many  this  girl?" 


134  CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH. 

"  I  really  will,  if  she  will  have  me !' 

Katlialie  laughed  a  low  and  bitter  laugh. 

"  Have  you  ?  Oh,  there  is  little  doubt  of  that,  I  fancy. 
Eveiy  one  knows  how  she  has  been  running  after  you  this 
many  a  day !" 

"  But  there  is  doubt  of  it.  Your  tine  Captain  Caven- 
dish pursues  her  like  her  shadow." 

"Charley,  I  will  not  listen  to  another  word,"  cried 
Nathalie,  imperiously.  "  Your  infatuation  seems  to  have 
changed  your  very  nature.  Why,  oh  why,  has  this  girl 
crossed  your  path  ?  If  you  wanted  to  many,  why  could 
you  not  have  chosen  some  one  else  ?  Why  could  you  not 
have  chosen  Miss  Rose  ?" 

Charley  smiled  under  cover  of  the  darkness.  The 
question  was  absurd.  Why  could  she  not  have  chosen  any 
of  her  other  suitors,  all  good  and  honorable  men  ?  Why 
could  she  not  have  chosen  Captain  Locksley,  young,  hand- 
some, rich,  and  the  soul  of  integrity.  He  did  not  say  so, 
however,  and  neither  spoke  again  till  the  gate  of  Redmon 
was  reached. 

"  Good  night,"  Nathahe  briefly  said,  her  voice  full  of 
inward  pain. 

"  Good  night,  Natty,"  Charley  replied,  "  and  God  bless 
you  and,"  lowering  his  voice  as  he  turned  away  "  keep  you 
from  ever  becoming  the  wife  of  Captain  Cavendish !" 

He  walked  on  and  entered  the  Isettleby  cottage,  where 
he  found  Cherrie  in  the  parlor  alone,  bending  over  a  noveL 
Cherrie's  welcome  to  her  lover  was  uncommonly  cordial,  for 
she  was  ennuied  nearly  to  death.  She  had  expected  Cap- 
tain Cavendish  all  the  afternoon,  and  had  been  disappoint- 
ed. Had  she  known  that  officer  was  making  arrangements 
for  their  speedy  nuptials,  she  might  perhaps  have  forgiven 
him ;  and  at  that  very  moment,  whilst  talking  to  Charley 
of  the  time  when  she  should  be  Mrs.  Marsh,  everything 
was  aiTanged  for  her  becoming,  the  very  next  week,  Mrs. 
Captain  George  Cavendish. 

About  five  o'clock  of  that  foggy  July  afternoon,  Mr. 
Val  Blake  sat  in  his  private  room,  in  the  office  of  the 
Speckport  Spouter,  his  shirt-collar  limp  and  wilted  with 
the  heat,  his  hair  wildly  disheveled,  and  his  expression 


CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH.  185 

altogether  bew^ildered  and  distracted.  The  table  at  which 
he  sat  was,  as  usual,  heaped  with  MS.,  letters,  books,  buff 
envelopes,  and  newspapers ;  and  Mr.  Blake  was  poring 
over  some  sheets  of  white  ruled  foolscap,  closely  written 
in  a  very  cramp  and  spidery  hand.  It  was  a  story  from 
"  the  fascinating  pen  of  our  gifted  and  talented  contribu- 
tor 'Incognita,'  whose  previous  charming  productions 
have  held  s}>ellbound  hosts  of  readers,"  as  the  Spoutcr 
said,  in  announcing  it  tlie  following  week,  and  the  title  of 
the  fascinating  production  was  the  "  Ten  Daughters  of 
Dives."  Miss  Laura  Blair  had  just  finislied  reading  the 
"Seven  Loves  of  Mammon,"  by  Mr.  George  Augustus 
Sala ;  hence  the  title  and  the  quaint  style  in  which  the 
thing  was  written.  So  extremely  quaint  and  original  in- 
deed was  the  style,  tliat  it  soared  totally  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  all  ordinary  intellects,  beginning  in  the  most 
disconcertingly  abrupt  manner,  and  ending  with  a  jerk, 
while  you  were  endeavoring  to  make  out  what  it  was  all 
about. 

" It's  of  no  use  trying,"  he  murmured,  pensively,  "the 
thing  is  beyond  me  altogether.  I'll  put  it  in,  hit  or  miss, 
or  Laura  will  never  forgive  me ;  and  1  dare  say  the  women 
will  make  out  what  it  means,  though  I  can't  make  top  or 
tail  of  it." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door  as  he  arrived  at  this  con- 
clusion, and  Master  Bill  Blair,  in  a  state  of  ink,  and  with 
a  paper  cap  on  his  head,  labeled  witli  the  startling  word 
"Devil"  made  his  appearance,  and  announced  that  Cap- 
tain Cavendish  was  in  the  office  and  wanted  to  see  him. 

"  Tell  him  to  come  in,"  said  Val,  rather  glad  than 
otherwise  of  a  chat  by  way  of  relaxation  after  his  late 
severe  mental  labor." 

The  captain  accordingly  came  in,  smoking  a  cigar,  and 
presented  his  cigar-case  the  tirst  thing  to  Val.  That  gen- 
tleman helped  himself,  and  the  twain  puffed  in  concert, 
and  discussed  the  foggy  state  of  the  weather  and  the  pros- 
pects of  the  "  Spouter."  As  this  desultory  conversation 
began  to  flag,  and  the  weed  smoked  out,  Mr.  Blake  re- 
membered he  was  in  a  hurry. 

"I  say,  captain,  you'll  excuse  me,  won't    you,  if  I 


186  CAPTAIN    CAVENDISH. 

tell  yon  I  haven't  mncli  time  to  spare  tliis  eveningr  "We 
go  press  to  to-morrow,  an^i  I  shall  have  to  get  to  work." 

Captain  Cavendish  came  ont  of  a  brown  study  he  had 
fallen  into,  and  lit  another  cigar. 

"  I  won't  detain  you  long,  Val.  I  know  you're  a  good 
fellow,  and  would  do  me  a  favor  if  you  could." 

Val  nodded  and  lit  a  cigar  also. 

"  I  want  you  to  do  me  the  greatest  service,  and  I  shall 
be  forever  your  debtor." 

"  Right,"  said  Val ;  "  let  us  hear  what  it  is." 

"  Yon  won't  faint,  will  you?  I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"  Are  you  2"  said  Mr.  Blake,  no  way-  discomposed. 
"To  whom r 

"  To  Cherrie  Nettleby." 

Val  did  start  this  time,  and  stared  with  all  his  eyes. 

•'To  whati!  You're  joking,  ain't  you?  To  Cherrie 
Nettleby!" 

"  Yes,  to  Cherrie  !N'ettleby,  but  on  the  cross  you  know, 
not  on  the  square.     Do  you  comprehend  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  thought  you  were  after  Natty 
Mai-sh  all  the  time." 

Captain  Cavendish  laughed. 

"  Y  ou  dear  old  daisy,  you're  as  innocent  as  a  new-bom 
babe.  I'm  not  going  to  marry  Cherrie  in  eai*nest,  only 
sham  a  marriage,  and  1  cannot  do  it  without  your  help. 
The  girl  is  ready  to  ran  away  with  me  an}'  day;  but  to 
make  njattei's  smooth  for  her,  1  want  her  to  think,  for  a 
while  at  least,  she  is  my  wife.     Y  ou  understand  now  ?" 

"  I  understand,"  said  Val,  betraying,  1  regret  to  say, 
not  the  slightest  particle  of  emotion  at  this  expose  of  vil- 
lainy ;  "  but  it's  an  ugly-looking  job.  Cavendish." 

"  Not  us  bad  as  if  she  ran  away  with  me  in  cold  blood 
— for  her  I  mean — and  she  is  sure  to  do  it.  You  know 
the  kind  of  girl  pretty  little  Cherrie  is,  Blake ;  so  you  wiU 
be  doing  her  rather  a  service  than  otherwise  in  helping 
me  on.  If  you  won't  help,  you  know  1  can  easily  get 
some  one  who  will,  and  I  trust  to  your  honor  to  keep 
silent.     But  come,  like  a  good  fellow,  help  me  out." 


CAPTAIN    GAVENDISE.  187 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Not  to  play  clergy- 
man ?" 

"  No ;  but  to  get  some  one — a  stranger  to  Clierrie  and 
I — consequently  a  stranger  in  Speckport,  who  will  tie  the 
knot,  and  on  whose  discretion  you  may  depend.  You 
shall  play  witness." 

Val  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  mused. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  it's  a  horrid  shame, 
but  rather  than  that  she  should  run  off  with  jou,  without 
any  excuse  at  all,  I'll  do  it.  How  soon  do  you  want  the 
thing  to  come  olt'  f 

"•  As  early  as  possible  next  week — say  Tuesday  night. 
It  will  be  better  after  night,  she  won't  be  so  apt  to  notice 
deficiencies," 

Val  mused  again. 

"  Cherrie's  a  Methodist  herself;  at  least,  she  sits  under 
the  teaching  of  the  Heverend  Mr.  Drone,  who  used  to  be 
rather  an  admirer  of  hers  before  he  got  married.  The 
chapel  is  in  an  out-of-the-way  street,  and  I  can  feign  an 
excuse  for  getting  the  key  from  Drone.  Suppose  it  takes 
place  there  ?" 

Captain  Cavendish  grasped  his  hand,  and  gave  it  a 
friendly  vise-like  grasp. 

"  Val,  you're  a  trump !  You  shall  have  my  everlasting 
gratitude  for  this." 

"  Next  Tuesday  night,  then,"  responded  Val,  taking 
the  officer's  rapture  stoically  enough.  "  And  now  I  must 
beg  you  to  leave  me,  for  I  have  bushels  of  work  on 
hand." 

Captain  Cavendish,  expressing  his  gratitude  once  more, 
lounged  into  the  drear  and  foggy  night.  How  lucky  for 
the  peace  of  the  community  at  large,  we  cannot  read  each 
other's  thoughts.  The  young  captain's  ran  something 
after  this  fashion : 

"1  always  knew  Blake  was  a  spoon,  but  I  never 
thought  he  was  such  an  infernal  scoundrel  as  this.  Why, 
he  is  worse  than  1  am  ;  for  I  really  am  in  love  with  the 
girl,  and  he  does  his  rascality  without  a  single  earthly 
motive.  AVell,  it's  all  the  better  for  me.  I'll  have  Cherrie 
as  sure  as  a  gun." 


138  THE    WEDDING. 

Mr.  Blake,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  room,  leaned  back  in 
liis  chair,  and  indulged  himself  in  a  low  and  quiet  laugh, 
before  commencing  work. 

"  I  said  I  owed  you  one,"  he  soliloquized,  throwing 
away  the  stump  of  his  second  cigar,  "for  leading  Charley 
Marsh  astray,  and  now's  the  time  to  pay  you.  If  I  don't 
serve  you  out  this  go,  Captain  Cavendish,  my  name's 
not  Valentine  Blake  I" 


CHAPTER  XIL 

IN  WHICH  THE  WEDDING  COMES   OFF. 

HE  foggy  day  had  ended  in  a  stormy  night. 
Black  clouds  had  hurried  wildly  over  the 
troubled  face  of  the  sky ;  a  dull  peal  of 
thunder,  booming  in  the  distance,  had  been  its 
herald.  Kain,  and  thunder,  and  lightning  had 
it  all  its  own  way  until  about  midnight,  when  the  sullen 
clouds  had  drifted  slowly,  and  the  moon  showed  her  fair, 
sweet  face  in  her  place.  A  day  of  brightest  sunshine,  ac- 
co'.npanied  by  a  high  wind,  had  been  the  result ;  and  in 
its  tnorning  refulgence,  Captain  Cavendish  was  sauntering 
along  the  Redraon  road.  Not  going  to  the  big  brick 
house,  surely  :  Nathalie  had  told  him  the  j^icnic  day  of 
Mrs.  Leroy's  growing  dislike  to  visitors,  and  the  hint  had 
been  taken.  Perhaps  it  was  only  for  a  constitutional,  or 
to  kill  time  ;  but  there  he  was,  lounging  in  the  teeth  of 
the  gale,  and  whistling  an  opera  air  as  he  went.  The 
Nettlehy  cottage,  fairly  overrun  with  its  luxuriance  of 
sweetbrier,  and  climbing  roses,  and  honeysuckle,  was  a 
pretty  sight,  and  well  worth  looking  at,  and  perhaps  that 
was  the  reason  Captain  Cavendish  stood  still  to  admire  it. 
The  windows,  all  wreathed  with  crimson  and  pink  roses, 
were  open ;  and  at  one  sat  Cherrie,  in  all  her  beauty,  like 


THE    WEDDING.  189 

a  picture  in  a  frame.  The  crimson  July  roses  about  her 
were  not  brighter  tlian  her  cheeks  at  the  sight  of  him,  and 
her  starrj  eyes  flashed  a  welcome  few  men  would  not  have 
coveted.  How  prettily  she  was  dressed,  too — knowing 
well  he  would  come,  the  gypsy ! — in  pink  muslin ;  her 
bar*  neck  and  arms  rising  plump  and  rounded  out  of  tiie 
gauziness ;  all  her  shining  jetty  curls  flashing  about,  and 
sprays  of  rosebuds  twisted  through  them.  How  the  pale, 
blue-eyed,  snowy-skinned,  fair-haired  prettiness  of  Natlialie 
dimmed  in  the  young  officer's  ardent  imagination  beside 
this  tropical,  gorgeous  loveliness  of  the  sunny  South.  He 
opened  the  little  gate,  and  was  at  the  window  before  she 
arose. 

"  My  black-eyed  fairy  ?  You  look  perfectly  dazzling 
this  morning.     Who  is  in  ?" 

"  No  one,"  said  Cherrie,  showing  her  pearl-white  teeth 
in  her  deepening  smile.  "  The  boys  are  off  Ashing ; 
father's  up  working  in  Lady  Leroy's  garden,  and  Ann's 
gone  to  town  for  groceries." 

"  Allah  be  praised !  I  may  come  in,  then,  my  darling, 
may  I  not  ?" 

Cherrie's  answer  was  to  throw  the  door  wide  open ; 
and  the  young  ofticer  entered  and  took  a  seat,  screened 
from  the  view  of  passers-by  by  the  green  gloom  of  the 
vines.  That  green  twilight  of  roses  and  honeysuckles  was 
just  the  thing  for  lo  /ers  to  talk  in ;  and  Captain  Caven- 
disii  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  Cherrie,  and  to  all  he  said 
Cherrie  had  nothing  to  give  but  rapturous  assents,  and 
was  altogether  in  the  seventh  heaven,  not  to  say  a  few 
miles  beyond  that  lofty  elysium.  It  was  all  arranged  at 
last  as  the  young  gentleman  wished,  and,  lolling  easily  on 
the  sofa,  he  went  off  on  another  tack. 

"  Are  you  often  up  in  Redmon  House,  Cherrie  ?"  he 
^ked,  stringing  the  black  ringlets  about  his  fingers. 

Cherrie,  seated  on  a  low  stool  beside  his  couch,  nestled 
luxuriously,  with  her  head  on  his  knee. 

"  Pretty  often,  George."  It  had  come  to  that,  you 
Bee.     "Wiiy?" 

"  Because — because  I  think  you  might  find  out  some- 


140  TEE    WEDDHfa. 

thing  for  me.  I  liave  a  fancy,  do  yon  know,  that  the  old 
lady  doesn't  over  and  above  like  me." 

"  I  know  sjie  don't,"  said  Cherrie,  decidedly.  "  She 
can't  bear  you,  nor  Midge  either.  They  scold  Miss  Katty 
like  sixty  every  time  you  go  there." 

"  The  deuce  they  do !  Suppose  she  fancied — mind,  I 
only  say  fancied — I  wanted  to  marry  Miss  Natty,  do  you 
snpjiose  she  would  consent  ?"    • 

"  Consent !  She'd  pack  Miss  Natty  bag  and  baggage 
out  of  the  Jiouse,  more  likely.  She'd  die  before  she'd  give 
in,  would  Mrs.  Leroy." 

Captain  Cavendish  fell  to  musing,  and  mused  so  long 
that  Cherrie  glanced  up  from  under  her  black  lashes, 
wondering  what  made  his  handsome  face  look  so  grave. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  V  she  pouted  ;  "  Miss 
Natty,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  my  little  black-eye.  I  was  thinking  how  you 
could  do  sometliing  for  me." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Couldn't  you  listen  ;  couldn't  you  manage  to  hear 
sometimes  what  JMrs.  Leroy  says  to  Natty,  when  they  ai'e 
talking  of  me  ?" 

Miss  Nettleby  was  not  at  all  shocked  at  this  proposal ; 
but  I  suppose  the  reader  is.  I  know  very  well  it  is  dis- 
graceful in  one  calling  himself  a  gentleman,  and  altogether 
dishonorable ;  but  Captain  Cavendish's  ideas  of  lionor, 
and  yours  and  mine,  are  rather  different.  Had  any  one 
called  him  a  liar  or  a  swindler,  or  thrown  a  decanter  at 
his  head,  or  a  tumbler  of  wine  in  his  face,  at  tiie  mess- 
table,  or  elsewhere,  he  woukl  have  considered  his  honor 
forfeited  forever,  if  he  did  not  stand  up  to  shoot  and  be 
shot  at  by  the  offending  party,  as  soon  as  possible  after- 
ward. In  one  word,  not  to  mince  matters,  Captain  Caven- 
dish, handsome  and  elegant  as  he  was,  was  an  inlidel  and 
a  villain,  and  you  may  as  well  know  it  first  as  last. 

"I  dare  say  I  can,"  wa.«  Cherrie's  reply  to  hif  pro- 
posal. "  1  am  up  there  often  enough,  and  I  know  an  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  place.     I'll  do  what  I  can." 

Captain  Cavendish  rewarded  lier,  as  lovei-s  do  reward 


THE     WEDDING.  141 

one  another,  I  am  told,  and  shortly  after  arose  to  take  his 
leave.     Miss  JSTettleby  escorted  him  to  the  gate. 

"  You  won't  forget  Tuesday  niglit,  Cheme,"  he  said, 
turning  to  go. 

"  It's  not  very  likely,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  but  I'll  see  you 
again  before  that — won't  I,  George?" 

"  Of  course,  my  darling !  Take  care  of  yourself,  and 
good-bye." 

He  sauntered  up  the  road  at  an  easy  pace ;  and  Cher- 
rie lingered  at  the  gate,  admiring  his  tall  and  elegant 
figure,  and  thinking,  with  an  exultant  heart  beating,  what 
a  happy  and  lucky  girl  she  was.  Forget  Tuesday  night ! 
the  night  that  was  to  make  her  his  bride.  She  quite 
laughed  aloud  at  the  thought,  in  the  glee  of  her  heart. 
He  was  still  in  sight,  this  Adonis  of  hers,  and  she  still 
lingered  at  the  gate  watching  him.  Lingering  thc^e,  she 
saw  something  not  quite  so  pleasant  as  she  could  wish. 
Aliss  Nathalie  Mareh,  in  a  dress  of  blue  barege,  a  black 
silk  mantle,  and  a  pretty  white  hat  trimmed  with  azure 
ribboTi,  its  long  white  plume  tipped  with  blue,  and  set 
jauntily  on  her  flowing  sujiny  curls,  came  down  the  avenue 
from  the  house,  opened  the  gate,  and  stepped  into  the 
road,  and  confronted  her  (Cherrie's)  beloved.  Cherrie 
saw  him  start  eagerly  forward,  but  could  not  hear^what 
he  said,  and  perhaps  for  her  peace  of  mind  it  was  just  as 
well. 

"  My  darling  Nathalie !  the  fortuna-.e  chance  I  havo 
been  wishing  for  has  come  then !  Are  you  going  to 
town  ?" 

Nathalie,  smiling  and  blushing,  shyly  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  Good  morning,  Captain  Cavendish !     I "    but 

he  interposed  reproachfully. 

"  Captain  Cavendish,  from  you,  Nathalie  ;  I  thought 
you  knew  my  name." 

"  Perhaps  I  havo  forgotten  it,"  she  laughed.  "  What 
are  you  doing  up  here,  George,"  a  little  hesitatingly, 
though,  aud  with  a  vivid  flush,  not  half  so  glibly  as  iliss 
Nettfcby  had  uttered  it  ten  minutes  before.  "  Were  you 
going  to  call  ?" 


142  THE    WEDDma. 

"  Hardly — remembering  tlie  hint  you  gave  me  the 
other  day.  But  though  I  could  not  storm  the  castle  of 
my  fairy-princess,  it  was  pleasant,  at  least,  to  reconnoiter 
the  outside,  and  I  hoped,  too,  for  the  lucky  chance  that 
lias  arrived.  Am  1 1»>  have  the  happy  privilege  of  escort- 
ing you  into  town?" 

Nathalie  cast  a  half-apprehensive  glance  behind,  but 
Midge  was  not  on  the  watch.  Had  she  known  how  dearly 
she  was  to  pay  for  that  walk — for  that  escort,  rather — s]ie 
had  hardly  answered  with  that  happy,  careless  laugh. 

"  Yes,  you  may  have  that  happy  privilege !  What 
did  you  do  with  yourself  all  day  yesterday  in  the  fog  ?" 
Cavendish  thought  of  what  he  had  been  doing  in  Val's 
office,  but  he  did  not  tell  Miss  Marsh.  Cherrie  was  still 
standing  by  the  cottage  gate,  and  they  were  passing  it 
now,  looking  like  a  black-eyed  queen,  under  the  arches  of 
scarlet  runners  and  morning-glories. 

"  A  pretty  place,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  "  and  that 

firl  at  the  gate  has  a  beautiful  face.  They  tell  me  she 
as  turned  half  the  heads  in  Speckport." 

Nathalie's  fair  brow  contracted ;  not  in  jealousy,  she 
never  thought  of  that,  but  at  the  recollection  of  Charley. 
She  made  no  answer.  Her  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
lady  who  was  coming  toward  them.  A  young  lady,  nice- 
ly dressed,  who  stepped  mincingly  along,  with  a  sweet 
smile  on  her  sullen  face. 

"  What  brings  Catty  Clowrie  up  this  way,  I  wonder  ?" 
exclaimed  Nathalie,  bowing  as  she  passed,  while  the  cap- 
tain lifted  his  hat.  "It  is  ever  so  long  since  I  have 
seen  her  on  this  road  before.  I  hope  she  is  not  going 
to  Redmon." 

But  Miss  Clowrie  was  going  to  Eedmon.  She  had 
not  started  with  that  idea ;  it  had  never  entered  her  head 
until  she  met  the  lovers ;  but  she  turned  and  looked  after 
them  with  a  smile  of  evil  menace  on  her  face. 

"  I  hate  her  I"  was  her  thought.  "  I  hate  her  I  But 
for  her  I  might  have  had  him  once.  Now  he  is  that  Net- 
tleby  girl's  beyond  hope.  I  wish  Miss  Marsh  joy  of  her 
aister-in-law." 

"That  Nettleby  girl"  still  stood  at  the  gate.     Miss 


TEE    WEDDING.  148 

Clowrie  bestowed  the  light  of  her  smile  upon  her  in  pass- 
ing, still  deep  in  thought.  "  They  say  in  Speckport  Lady 
Leroy  has  forbidden  Captain  Cavendish  the  house,  and 
threatens  to  disinherit  Natty  if  she  keeps  his  company. 
Perhaps  she  does  not  know  of  this.  I  think  I'll  go  up 
and  tell  her.     One  good  turn  deserves  another." 

Midge  answered  the  young  lady's  knock,  and  admitted 
her  to  the  presence  of  Lady  Leroy.  That  mummy  she 
found  in  her  usual  state  of  wrappings,  and  very  ready  for 
a  little  gossip. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  out  more,  Mrs.  Leroy,"  insinuated 
Catty ;  "it  would  do  you  good,  1  am  sure." 

"  No,  it  wouldn't !"  snapped  the  old  lady.  "  It  does 
me  harm.     I  hain't  got  over  that  picnic  yet." 

"  But  I  should  think  you  would  liud  it  very  lonely 
here,  with  Nathalie  away  so  much.  I  hear  she  spends 
naost  of  her  time  in  town  of  late." 

"So  she  does,"  Lady  Leroy  screamed.  "She  will  go 
in  spite  of  me.  If  it  ain't  the  school,  it's  a  part}"^  or  a 
picnic — something  or  other ;  but  she's  gallivanting  all  the 
time." 

"  I  met  her  just  now,"  remarked  Catty,  in  a  careless 
way,  "  with  Captain  Cavendish.  He  had  been  waiting  for 
her,  I  think,  at  the  gate." 

"  What  ?"  shrieked  Lady  Leroy,  "  who  with,  or  who 
did  you  say  ?" 

"Captain  Cavendish,"  repeated  Miss  Clowrie,  looking 
surprised.  "  I  thought  you  said  they  were  engaged !  At 
least,  every  one  says  they  are." 

Lady  Leroy  fell  back,  gasping,  clawing  the  air  in  her 
struggle  with  her  ten  talon-like  lingers.  Catty,  quite 
alarmed,  started  up  to  assist  her.  Lady  Leroy  grasped 
her  by  the  wrist  with  a  fierce  grip. 

"You're  sure  of  this?  You're  sure  of  this?"  she 
huskily  whispered,  still  gasping.  "You're  sure  she  was 
walking  with  him?  You're  sure  she  is  engaged  to 
hhn?" 

"  I  am  sure  she  was  walking  with  him,"  said  Catty ; 
"  and  every  one  says  she  is  engaged  to  him ;  and  what 


144  TEE    WEDDING 

eveiT  one  says  must  be  true.  It's  very  strange  you  did 
not  know  it." 

Lady  Leroy  "  grinned  horribly  a  ghastly  smile."  "  I 
do  know  it  now !  I  told  her  not  to  go  with  him — I  told 
her  not  to  go  with  him — and  this  is  the  way  she  obeys 
me!" 

She  fell  to  clawing  the  air  again,  in  a  manner  so  very 
uncomfortable  to  look  at,  that  Miss  Clowrie  arose,  with 
some  precipitation,  to  go. 

"  They  say  he  is  a  fortune-hunter  and  very  extrava- 
gant, and  goes  after  her  because  she  is  your  heiress ;  but 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Leroy.  I 
am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well," 

With  which  the  fair  Miss  Clowrie  bowed  hei*self  out, 
smiling  more  than  Midge  had  ever  seen  her  before, 
and  quite  laughing,  in  fact,  when  she  got  out  of  doore. 

"  I  think  I  have  paid  a  little  of  my  debt.  Miss  ISTatty," 
she  thought.  "  I'll  pay  it  all,  my  dear,  I  hope,  before 
either  of  us  die." 

In  the  silent  solitude  of  her  lonely  room,  Lady  Leroy 
had  ample  time  to  nurse  her  wrath  before  the  i"eturn  of 
her  ward.  It  was  nearly  noon  before  that  young  lady 
reached  home,  her  pretty  face  glowing  with  her  raj)id 
walk. 

"  Midge,"  was  her  fii*st  breathless  question,  "  has  Catty 
Clowrie  been  here  this  morning  ?" 

Midge  answered  in  the  atiirmative,  and  Nathalie's 
heart  sank.  All  the  way  up-stairs  she  was  preparing  her- 
self for  a  violent  outburst  of  wrath  ;  bnt,  to  her  astonish- 
ment. Lady  Leroy  was  quite  tranquil.  She  glanced 
very  hard  at  her,  it  is  true,  and  her  lingers  were  clawing 
empty  air  very  viciously,  but  her  voice  was  not  loud  nor 
angry. 

"  You're  very  late,  aren't  you  ?"  she  said.  "  What 
kept  you  ?" 

"  i  ran  down  to  see  mamma.  Miss  Rose  told  nie  slie 
was  not  very  well;  but  I  hurried  home  as  fast  as  I  could. 
I'll  make  out  those  bills  now." 

"  Let  the  bills  wait  awhile,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 


TEE    WEDDING.  145 

This  was  an  ominous  commencement,  and  Nathalie 
looked  at  her  in  some  dread. 

"  Who  was  it  you  walked  into  town  with  this  morn- 
ing?" she  asked,  glaring  harder  than  ever. 

Catty  had  told,  then.  All  the  blood  in  Nathalie's 
body  seemed  blazing  in  her  face,  as  she  answered : 

"  It  was  Captain  Cavendish.  I  chanced  to  meet  him 
near  the  gate,  and  I  could  not  very  well  help  his  walking 
back  to  town  with  me." 

"  Didn't  you  promise  me,"  said  Lady  Leroy,  still  speak- 
ing with  astonishing  calmness,  but  clawing  the  air  fiercely 
with  both  hands,  "  when  I  forbade  you  going  with  him, 
that  you  would  walk  with  him  no  more  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Nathalie.  "  I  said  he  would  come  here 
no  more,  and  neither  he  shall." 

"  Until  I  am  dead,  I  suppose,"  said  the  old  woman, 
with  a  laugh  that  was  very  unpleasant  to  hear,  "  and  you 
have  all  my  money.  Answer  me  one  question,  Natty. 
Are  you  engaged  to  him  ?     Don't  tell  a  lie." 

"  No,"  said  Nathalie,  proudly,  "  1  am  not  in  the  habit 
of  telHng  deliberate  lies.     I  am  !" 

Lady  Leroy  gave  a  shrill  gasp,  her  fingers  working 
convulsively,  but  the  spasm  was  over  in  a  moment.  She 
eat  up  again ;  and  Nathalie,  huriiedly  and  imploringly, 
went  on : 

"  Dear  Mi-s.  Leroy,  don't  be  angry !  Indeed,  you  mis- 
judge Captain  Cavendish;  he  is  a  good  and  honorable 
man,  and  respects  you  much.  Dear  Mrs.  Leroy,  consent 
to  our  engagement  and  I  will  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the 
world!" 

■  She  went  over  and  put  her  arms  round  the  mummy's 
neck,  kissing  the  withered  face.  The  old  woman  pushed 
her  away  with  another  of  her  unpleasant  laughs. 

"  There — there,  child  !  do  as  you  please.  I  knew  you 
would  do  it  anyway,  only  I  won't  have  him  here — mind. 
I  won't  have  him  here  !  Now,  get  to  work  at  them  bills. 
What's  the  matter  with  your  mother  ?" 

"  Sick  headache,"  said  Nathalie,  chilled,  she  scarcely 
knew  why,  by  the  old  woman's  manner.     "  She  wanted 
7 


146  THE     WEDDING. 

me  to  stay  with  her  this  afternoon  ;  but  I  told  her  I  was 
afraid  you  could  not  spare  me." 

Mrs.  Leroy  mused  a  few  moments,  while  Nathalie 
wrote,  and  then  looked  up. 

"  I'll  spare  you  this  afternoon,  Natty,  since  your 
mother  is  sick.  You  can  take  the  bills  in  with  you  and 
collect  them.     If  you  are  back  by  nine,  it  will  do." 

Nathalie  was  so  amazed,  she  dropped  her  pen  and  sat 
staring,  quite  unable  to  return  a  word  of  thanks,  and  not 
quite  certain  she  was  not  dreaming. 

"  Get  on,  get  on  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Leroy,  in  her  cus- 
tomary testy  tone.  "  You'U  never  have  the  bills  done  at 
that  rate." 

Nathalie  finished  the  bills  mechanically,  and  with  a 
mind  far  otherwise  absorbed.  "Then  she  went  to  her 
room,  and  put  on  her  hat  and  mantle  for  another  walk  to 
Speekport ;  but  all  the  time  that  uneasy  feeling  of  doubt 
and  uncertainty  remained.  Mrs.  Leroy  had  acted  so 
strangely,  had  been  so  ominously  quiet  and  unlike  herself, 
and  had  not  consented.  Nathalie  came  in  dressed  for 
town,  and  bent  over  her,  until  her  long  bright  curls  swept 
the  yellow  old  face. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Leroy!"  she  pleadingly  said,  "I  cannot 
feel  satisfied  until  you  actually  say  you  agree  to  this  en- 

fagemem.  Do — do,  if  you  love  your  Natty,  for  all  my 
appiness  depends  upon  it.  Do  say  you  consent,  and  I 
will  never  offend  you  again  as  long  as  I  live  ?" 

Lady  Leroy  glared  up  at  her  with  green,  and  glitter- 
ing, ana  wicked  old  eyes. 

"  If  I  don't  consent,  will  you  break  off.  Natty  ?" 

"  You  know  I  cannot.  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart. 
Oh,  Mrs.  Leroy  !  remember  you  were  once  young  your- 
self, and  don't  be  hard  !" 

Looking  at  that  dry  and  withered  old  antediluvian,  it 
was  hard  to  imagine  her  ever  young — harder  still  to  imag- 
ine her  knowing  anything  about  the  fever  called  love. 
She  pushed  Nathalie  impatiently  away. 

"  G«t  along  with  you,  and  don't  bother !"  was  her 
cry.  "  I  told  you  to  have  your  way,  and  you  ouglit  to  be 
satisfied.     You  won't  give  in  to  me,  but  you'd  like  me  to 


THE    WEDDING.  147 

give  in  to  you — wouldn't  you  ?  Go  along,  and  don't  tor- 
ment me !" 

"When  Mrs.  Leroy's  cracked  voice  grew  shrill  and 
piercing,  and  her  little  eyes  gleamed  greenish  flame, 
Nathalie  knew  better  than  to  irritate  her  by  di. -obedience. 
She  turned  to  go,  with  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart, 

"  I  will  be  back  by  nine,"  she  said,  simply,  as  she 
quitted  the  room. 

Miss  Nettleby,  seated  at  her  cottage  door,  under  the 
roses  and  sweetbrier,  industriously  stitching  on  some  gos- 
samer article  to  be  worn  next  Tuesday  evening,  looked  up 
in  some  surprise  at  sight  of  Miss  Marsh  on  her  way  to 
Speckport,  for  the  second  time  that  day. 

"  Going  back  to  town,  Miss  Natty  ?"  she  called  out, 
familiarly. 

Miss  Natty's  answer  was  a  cold  and  formal  bow,  as  she 
passed  on.     Cherrie  dropped  her  work  and  started  up. 

"  I'll  go  to  the  house  and  have  a  talk  ^vith  Granny 
Grumpy  herself  before  she  comes  back.  Perhaps  1  may 
fiud  out  something.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  humor  she 
is  in." 

Lady  Lcroy  was  in  uncommonly  serene  humor  for  her. 
Before  Nathalie  had  been  ten  minutes  gone,  she  had 
shouted  for  Midge  ;  and  that  household  treasure  appear- 
ing, with  sleeves  rolled  up  over  her  elbows,  and  in  a  very 
soapy  and  steamy  state,  had  desired  her  to  array  herself  in 
other  garments,  ^nd  go  right  away  into  Speckport. 

"  Go  into  Speckport !"  cried  Midge,  in  shrill  indigna- 
tion. "  I'll  see  you  boiled  alive  liret,  ma'ara,  and  that's 
the  long  and  short  of  it.  Go  into  town,  wash-day,  indeed ! 
What  do  you  want  in  town,  ma'am  ?" 

"  I  want  Mr.  Darcy — that's  what  I  want  I"  vehe- 
mently replied  her  mistress.  "  I  want  Mr.  Darcy,  you 
ugly  little  imp  ;  and  if  you  don't  go  straight  after  him, 
I'll  heave  this  at  your  head,  I  will  1" 

"  This  "  was  a  huge  black  case  bottle,  which  trifle  of 
glass  the  lady  of  Redmon  brandished  in  a  manner  that 
made  even  Midge  draw  back  a  few  paces  in  alarm. 

"  I  want  Mr.  Darcy  on  important  business,  I  do  I" 
ijcreamed  Lady  Leroy.     "  And   tell  him  not  to  let  the 


148  THE     WEDDING. 

grass  grow  under  his  feet  on  the  way.  Be  off,  will 
you  ?" 

"  "Why  didn't  you  tell  Miss  Natty  ?"  sulkily  said  Midge 

"  Because  she  isn't  coming  back  till  nine  o'clock,  that's 
why ;  and  I  can't  wait.  Well,  what  do  you  want,  young 
woman  ?" 

This  last  polite  interrogation  was  addressed  to  Miss 
!Nettleby,  who  stood  smiling  in  the  doorway,  in  all  the 
splendor  of  her  charms. 

"  I  just  ran  up  to  see  how  you  were,"  said  Cherrie. 
"  If  you  want  any  errand  done  in  the  town,  Mrs.  Leroy, 
I'll  go.     I  can  walk  fafcter  than  Midge,  you  know." 

"  So  she  can,"  cried  Midge ;  "  let  her  go,  ma'am ;  I 
won't." 

With  which  Midge  waddled  off,  making  the  hall 
quake  with  her  airy  tread.  Mrs.  Leroy  looked  with  un- 
usual graciousness  at  the  young  lady. 

"  Will  you  go,  Cherrie,  and  be  quick  about  it.  Tell 
Darcy  to  hurry ;  you  can  drive  back  with  him,  you  know." 

Cherrie  wanted  nothing  better,  and  was  off  Hkc  a 
dart,  scenting  a  secret,  and  determined  to  get  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it. 

"  What  does  she  want  with  her  lawyer,  I  wonder?" 
soliloquized  Cherrie,  on  the  road.  "  I'll  lind  out.  Miss 
Natty's  out  of  the  way,  and  Midge  will  be  down  in  the 
kitchen.     I'll  find  out." 

Mr.  Darcy  was  one  of  the  best  lawyers  in  the  town, 
and  was  Lady  Leroy's  man  of  business  ever  since  her 
advent  in  Speckport.  Cherrie  found  him  in  his  othce — a 
handsome  and  gentlemanly  old  man,  with  gray  hair, 
whiskers,  and  mustache,  and  a  clear,  bright  eye. 

"  What  can  the  old  lady  want  ?"  he  wondered,  aloud, 
putting  on  his  hat ;  "  she  didn't  tell  you,  I  suppose  ? 
Will  you  drive  back  with  me.  Miss  Cherrie  ?" 

Miss  Cherrie  consented,  and  they  had  a  very  pleasant 
drive  together,  the  old  gentleman  chaffing  her  about 
her  beaux,  and  wanting  to  know  when  she  v/as  going  to 
stop  breaking  liearts,  and  get  married.  Cherrie  did  not 
say  "next  Tuesday,"  she  only  laughed,  and  desired  to  be 
set  down  at  her  own  gate. 


TUB     Wi:DDL\a.  149 

There  she  watched  the  lawver  out  of  sight,  and  then 
went  deliberately  after  him.  Isot  to  the  front  door,  how- 
ever, but  to  a  back  window  she  knew  of,  easily  lifted, 
through  it,  up-stairs  on  tiptoe,  and  into  Nathalie's  room, 
which  she  locked  on  the  inside.  Nathalie's  room  adjoined 
Lady  Leroy's,  and  the  wall  being  thin,  the  conversation 
of  the  lawyer  and  the  old  woman  was  distinctly  audible. 
Cherrie  sat  down  on  the  floor,  with  her  ear  glued  to  the 
wall,  and  listened.  It  was  a  prolonged  and  excited  talk, 
the  lawyer  angrily  protesting,  Mrs.  Leroy  angrily  deter- 
mined ;  and  it  ended  in  Mr.  Darcy's  yielding,  but  gram- 
blingly,  and  still  under  protest.  Cherrie  had  fairly  held 
her  breath  while  listening — astonishment  and  delight 
pictured  on  her  face. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  Mr.  Darcy  was  writing. 
In  half  an  hour  his  task  was  completed,  and  he  read  it 
aloud  to  the  mistress  of  Redraon.  "  That  will  do,"  said 
Lady  Leroy,  "  I'm  glad  it's  over." 

"  Do  you  want  that  paper  witnessed  ?     Call  Midge." 

Mr.  Darcy  opened  the  door,  and  shouted  through  the 
darkness  for  Midge,  as  Captain  Cavendish  had  once  done 
before.  Midge  made  her  appeai'ance,  as  soapy  and  steamy 
as  ever. 

"  Write  your  name  here,"  said  Mr.  Darcy,  abruptly 
pointing  to  the  place. 

"  What  is  it  V  inquired  Midge* 

"  That's  no  affair  of  youi-s,  is  it  ?     Sign  it,  will  you  1" 

Midge  took  the  pen  as  if  it  weighed  half  a  ton  or  so, 
set  her  head  very  much  on  one  side,  thrust  her  tongue  a 
little  out  of  one  comer  of  her  mouth,  and  with  much 
labor  and  painstaking,  affixed  a  blotted  autograph — Pris- 
cilla  Short. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Mr.  Darcy  ;  "  we  want  another. 
Call  in  old  Nettleby — he  can  write." 

Midge,  casting  a  parting  look,  of  much  complacence  at 
her  performance,  departed  on  her  errand,  and  old  Nettleby 
coming  in  shortly  after,  affixed  another  blotted  signature. 
Mr.  Darcy  dispatched  liim  about  his  business,  folded  the 
document,  put  it  in  his  ])ocket-book,  and  took  his  hat  and 
cane  to  go.     On  the  threshold  he  paused. 


150  AFTER     TEE     WEDDING. 

"  This  has  been  done  under  the  influence  of  anger, 
Mrs.  Leroy,"  he  said ;  "  and  you  will  think  better  of  it, 
and  send  me  word  to  destroy  it  before  long.  I  consider 
it  most  unjust — exceedingly  unjust — altogether  unjustifi- 
able !     Good  afternoon,  ma'am." 

Cherrie  waited  in  her  hiding-place  until  she  heard  the 
hall  door  close  after  him,  then  stole  noiselessly  out,  down- 
stairs, through  the  window,  and  gained  her  own  home, 
miobserved. 

What  had  she  heard  ?  Her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes 
bright,  her  whole  manner  strangely  excited.  She  could 
not  keep  still — she  walked  ceaselessly  to  and  from  the 
gate,  straining  her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  Speckport. 

"  Why  don't  he  come !  Why  don't  he  come  I"  she 
kept  repeating,  hurriedly.  "Oh,  what  will  he  say  to 
thisP 


CHAPTER   Xm. 

APTEE    THE  WEDDING. 

KN  KETTLEBY,  busy  in  the  culinary  depart- 
ment, never  remembered  seeing  her  restless 
sister  so  exceedingly  restless  as  on  this  after- 
noon. When  the  clock  struck  six,  and  old 
Mr.  Nettleby  plodded  home  from  his  day's 
work,  and  the  two  young  Mr.  Nettleby's  came  whistling 
from  town,  and  tea  was  ready,  Ann  came  out  to  call  her 
to  partake.  But  Cherrie  impatiently  declined  to  partake ; 
and  still  waited  and  watched,  while  the  sunset  was  burn- 
ing itself  out  of  the  pui-ple  sky,  and  the  cinnamon  roses 
drooped  in  the  evening  wind.  The  last  amber  arid  crim- 
son flush  was  paling  behind  the  blue  western  hills,  when 
he,  so  long  waited  for,  came  up  the  dusty  road,  twirling  a 
cane  in  his  hand,  and  smoking  a  cigar.  ^  The  unspeakable 
beauty  and  serenity  of  the  summer  twilight  was  no  more 


AFTER     THE     WEDDING.  151 

to  liim  than  to  her  wlio  watched  at  the  vine-wreathed 
gate.  A  handsome  man  and  a  pretty  girl — each  was  far 
more  to  the  taste  of  the  other  than  all  the  beauty  of  sky 
and  earth. 

Right  opposite  the  cottage  were  the  dark,  silent  cedar 
woods.  The  moment  he  came  in  eight,  Cherrie  opened 
the  gate,  motioning  him  to  follow,  struck  into  the  narrow 
footpath,  winding  among  the  woods.  Captain  Cavendish 
followed,  and  found  her  sitting  on  a  little  knoll,  under  the 
tree. 

"  I  have  been  watching  for  you  this  ever  so  long,"  she 
breathlessly  began ;  "  I  thouglit  you  would  never  come ! 
I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  I  daren't  tell  you  in  the 
house,  for  father  and  the  boys  are  there." 

Captain  Cavendish  leaned  against  a  tree,  puffed  his 
cigar,  and  looked  lazily  down  at  her. 

"  Well,  petite,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  it's  something  dreadfully  important.  It's  about 
Miss  Marsh." 

The  young  captain  threw  away  liis  ci^ar,  and  took  a 
seat  beside  Cherrie,  interes^d  at  once.  He  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  too,  but  this  is  by-the-way. 

"  About  Miss  Marsh  'i     Have  you  been  listening  ?" 

Cherrie  gave  him  an  account  how  she  had  gone  for 
Mr.  Darcy,  and  hidden  afterward  in  Nathalie's  room. 

" My  clever  little  darling !     And  what  did  you  hear?" 

"You  never  could  guess!  O  my  goodness,"  cried 
Cherrie,  clasping  her  hands,  "  won't  Miss  Natty  be  in  a 
passion,  when  she  finds  it  out." 

"  Will  she,  though  ?     Let  us  hear  it,  Cherrie." 

"  Well,"  said'  Cherrie,  "  you  know  Miss  Natty  was  to 
bo  heiress  of  Redmon,  and  have  all  Lady  Leroy's  money 
when  she  dies  V 

"Yes!  weU?" 

"  Well,  she  isn't  to  be  any  longer !  Lady  Leroy  made 
a  new  will  this  afternoon,  and  Miss  Natty  is  disinherited !" 

Captain  Cavendish  started  with  something  like  an  oath. 

"  Cherrie !  arc  vou  sure  of  this  ?" 

"  Certain  sure  I"  said  Cherrie,  with  a  look  and  tone 
there  was  no  doubting.     "  I  heard  every  word  of  it — her 


152  AFTER     THE     WEDDING. 

teUing  him  so  first,  and  him  reading  the  will  afterward 
and  father  and  Midge  signed  it !" 

"  The — devil !"  said  Captain  Cavendish  Ijetween  his 
teeth ;  "  but  what  put  such  a  freak  in  the  old  hag's  head?" 

"  You !"  said  Cherrie. 

« I !» 

"  Yes — ^just  you !  She  told  Mr.  Darcy  Natty  was  en- 
gaged to  you,  and  would  not  give  you  up,  all  she  could 
say;  so  she  meant  to  disinherit  her.  She  said  Nathalie 
should  never  know,  unless  she  married  you  befoi-e  she  was 
dead — if  she  didn't,  she  shouldn't  find  it  out  until  she  was 
in  her  grave,  and  then  you  would  desert  her  when  you 
found  out  she  was  poor,  and  Nathahe  would  be  rewarded 
for  her  disobedience !" 

Captain  Cavendish's  handsome  face  wore  a  scowl  so 
black,  and  the  oath  he  swore  was  so  dreadful,  that  even 
Cherrie  shrank  away  in  something  hke  terror. 

"  The  old  hag !  I  could  throttle  her  if  I  had  her  here  1 
Cherrie,  who  did  she  leave  her  money  to  ?" 

"  To  her  brother — or,  in  case  of  his  death,  to  his  heirs ; 
and  five  pounds  to  Natty  to  ]|^uy  a  mourning  ring." 

"  Did  you  hear  her  brother's  name  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  forget !  It  was  Harrington,  or  Harrison, 
or  something  like  that.  Mr.  Darcy  scolded  like  every- 
thing, and  said  it  was  unjust ;  but  Lady  Leroy  didn't  seem 
to  mind  him.     Isn't  it  good  I  listened  ?" 

"  Cherrie !  Cherrie !  Cherrie !"  called  Ann  Nettleby, 
"  Where  are  you,  Cherrie  ?  There's  somebody  iu  the  house 
wants  you !" 

"  I  must  go  !"  said  Cherrie,  rising.  "  You  stay  here, 
80  Ann  won't  see  you.     Will  you  be  up  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Cavendish ;  and  Cherrie  flitted 
away  rapidly  in  the  growing  dusk.  For  once  he  was  glad 
to  be  rid  of  Cherrie — ^glad  to  be  calm  and  think,  and  the 
late-rising  moon  was  high  in  the  sky  before  he  left  the 
wood,  and  walked  back  to  Speckport. 

Cherrie's  visitor  turned  out  to  be  Charley  Marsh,  who 
received  the  reverse  of  a  cordial  welcome  from  his  fickle- 
minded  lady-love,  who  was  more  than  a  little  provoked  at 
bis  shortening  her  interview  with  one  she  liked  better. 


AFTER     THE    WEDDING.  163 

She  seated  herself  by  the  window,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  cedar  wood,  rapidly  blackening  now,  waiting  for  her 
lover  to  emerge ;  but  when  liis  tall  dark  figure  did  at 
length  stride  out  through  the  dark  path,  night  liad  fairly 
fallen,  and  it  was  too  late  to  see  what  expression  his  face 
wore.  • 

Whatever  the  young  Englishman's  state  of  mind  had 
been  on  leaving  the  wood  that  night,  it  w^is  serene  as  mood 
could  be  when,  next  morning,  Sunday,  Miss  Ncttleby,  en 
graiide  tenue,  gold  chain  and  all,  made  her  appearance  in 
Speckport,  and  met  him  as  she  turned  out  of  Redmon 
road.  Miss  Nettleby  was  going  to  patronize  the  cathedral 
this  morning,  confirmation  was  to  take  place,  with  all  the 
magnificent  and  poeticid  ceremonies  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  Cherrie  would  not  have  niissed  it  for  the 
world.  Neither  would  Captain  Cavendish,  who  went 
partly  from  curiosity,  partly  to  kill  time,  partly  to  show 
himself  in  full  uniform,  and  partly  to  hear  Nathalie  Marsh 
play  and  sing.  Out  of  the  great  organ  she  was  drawing 
such  inspiring  strains  as  Captain  Cavendish  thought  he 
had  never  heard  before ;  rolling  out  in  volumes  of  har- 
mony over  the  ears  of  people  below,  and  grand  and 
gmtcfiil  were  the  notes  the  instrument  gave  forth  to  her 
master-hand.  In  front  of  the  altar  all  the  youtliful  aspir- 
ants for  contirmation  were  seated,  tiie  girls  robed  in  snowy 
white,  and  wearing  vails  and  wreaths  on  their  bowed  heads, 
like  young  brides.  But  now  the  bishop,  in  mitre  and 
chasuble,  with  a  throng  of  attendant  priests,  in  splendid 
vestments,  preceded  by  a  score  of  acolytes  in  scarlet 
Boutanes,  and  white  lace  surplices,  bearing  candles  and 
crozier,  are  all  on  the  altar,  and  the  choir  have  buret  forth 
as  with  one  voice,  into  the  plaintive  cry  "  Kyrie  Eleison," 
and  pontifical  high  massh  as  begun.  High  over  idl  that 
swelling  choir,  high,  clear  and  sweet,  one  soprano  voice 
arises,  the  voice  of  the  golden-haired  organist :  "  Gloria  in 
Excelsis !"  Something  in  the  deep  solemnity  of  the  scene, 
in  the  inspiring  music,  in  the  white- robed  and  flower- 
crowned  gu'ls,  in  the  silent  devotion  of  the  thousands 
around  him,  stirred  a  feeling  in  the  soid  of  the  man,  that 
he  had  never  felt  since,  in  early  boyhood,  before  he  knew 
7* 


.154  AFTER    THE}    WEDDING. 

Eton  or  Volt  lire,  he  had  knelt  at  his  mother's  knee,  and 
learned  there  his  childish  prayers.  He  forgot,  for  a  brief 
while,  his  wickedness  and  his  worldliness,  forgot  the  black- 
ejed  girl  ])j  his  side,  and  the  blue-ejed  girl  whose  voice 
vibrated  through  those  loftv  aisles,  and,  with  dreamy  eyes, 
and  a  heart  that  went  back  to  that  old  time,  listened  to 
the  sermon  of  the  aged  and  white-haired  priest,  grown 
gray  in  the  service  of  that  God  whom  he,  a  poor  atom  of 
the  dust,  dared  deride.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  in 
which  the  great  Creator,  in  his  infinite  compassion  for 
his  lost  sheep,  goes  in  search  of  us  to  lead  us  back  to  the 
fold,  in  which  our  good  angel  fluttei"s  liis  wliite  wings 
about  us,  and  tries  to  lift  us  out  of  the  slime  in  wliich  ^ve 
are  wallowing.  But  the  sermon  was  over,  the  benediction 
given,  the  last  voluntary  was  playing,  and  the  vast  crowd 
were  pouring  out.  Captain  Cavendish  took  his  hat  and 
went  out  with  the  rest ;  and  before  he  had  fairly  passed 
through  the  catliedral  gates  was  his  old,  worldly,  infidel 
self  again,  and  was  pouring  congratulations  and  praise  into 
the  too-willing  ears  of  Nathalie  Marsh,  on  her  admirable 
performances,  while  Charley  went  home  with  Cherrie. 

All  that  day,  and  the  next,  and  tlio  next.  Captain 
Cavendish  never  came  near  Heumon,  or  the  pretty  cottage 
where  the  roses  and  sweetbriei's  grew ;  but  Mr.  Johnston,  a 
pleasant-spoken  and  dapper  young  cockney,  without  an  h 
in  his  alphabet,  and  the  captain's  confidential  valet,  came 
back  and  forth  with  messages,  and  took  all  trouble  and 
suspicion  off  his  master.  Neither  had  Miss  Nettleby 
made  her  appearance  in  Speckport;  she  had  spent  the 
chief  part  of  her  time  about  the  red-brick  house,  but  had 
learned  nothing  further  by  all  her  eavesdropping.  In  a 
most  restless  and  excited  state  of  mind  had  the  young  lady 
been  ever  since  Monday  morning,  in  a  sort  of  inward  fever 
that  grew  woi*se  and  worse  with  every  passing  hour.  She 
got  up  and  sat  down,  and  wandered  in  and  out,  and  tried 
to  read,  and  sew,  and  net,  and  play  the  accordion,  and 
threw  down  each  impatiently,  after  a  few  moments'  trial. 
She  sat  down  to  her  meals  and  got  up  without  eating  any- 
thing; her  cheeks  burned  with  a  deep,  steady  fever-red, 
her  eyes  had  the  unnatural  brightness  of  the  same  disease, 


AFTER    TEE    WEDDING.  155 

and  Ann  stared  at  her,  and  opined  she  was  losing  her 
wits. 

In  rain  and  gloom  the  wedding-day  dawned  at  last. 
Cherrie's  fever  was  worse — she  wandered  from  room  to 
room  of  the  cottage  all  day  long,  the  fire  in  her  eyes  and 
the  hectic  on  her  cheek  more  brilliant  than  ever.  The 
sky  was  lUve  lead,  the  wind  had  a  warning  wail  in  its  voice, 
and  the  rain  fell  snllenly  and  ceaselessly.  But  the  rain 
could  not  keep  the  girl  in-doors ;  she  went  out  and  wan- 
dered around  in  it  all,  returning  dripping  wot,  three  or 
four  times,  to  change  her  drenched  clothes.  TJie  girls 
had  the  cottage  to  themselves ;  old  Nettleby  was  out  in 
the  shed,  mending  his  gardening-tools,  and  the  boys  were 
in  Spcckport.  The  dull  day  was  ending  in  a  duller  and 
rainier  twilight,  and  Ann  Nettleby  was  bustling  about  the 
tidy  kitchen,  getting  tea,  and  wondering  if  Cherrie  had 
gone  to  bed  in  her  room  up-stairs,  she  had  been  so  quiet 
for  the  last  half-hour.  She  did  not  go  up  to  see ;  but  set 
the  tea  to  draw,  laid  the  table,  and  lit  the  lamp.  The  wet 
twilight  had  now  closed  in,  in  a  black  and  dismal  night, 
when  Ann  heard  a  carriage  stop  at  the  gate,  and,  a  mo- 
ment after,  a  loud  knock  at  the  front  door.  Before  she 
could  open  it,  some  person  without  did  so,  and  Aim  saw 
Mr.  Val  Blake,  wrapped  in  a  mackintosh,  and  waiting  at 
the  gate  a  cab,  with  a  lighted  lamp. 

"  IIow  are  you,  Ann  V  inquired  Mr.  Blake.  "  Is 
Cherrie  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  here  I  am !"  a  voice  called  out,  and  Cherrie  lier- 
self  came  running  down  stairs,  her  heart  beating  so  fast 
and  thick  she  could  hardly  speak. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  a  drive  this  evening,  Cher- 
rie," said  Yal ;  "  it's  wet,  but  you  won't  mind  it  in  the 
cab,  and  I'll  fetch  you  back  before  ten.  Run  and  wrap 
up  and  come  along." 

It  was  not  the  hi-st  time  Ann  Nettleby  had  heard  such 
impromptu  invitations  given  and  accepted,  and  it  was  none 
of  her  business  to  interfere.  Cherrie  was  off  Uke  a  flash, 
and  down  again  directly,  in  out-door  dress,  her  vail  down, 
to  hide  her  flushed  and  excited  face. 

Ann  Nettleby,  standing  in  the  cottage-door,  watched 


156  AFTER     THE     WEDDING. 

the  cab  drive  away  through  the  i*ainy  night,  and  then, 
closing  the  door,  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  to  give  her 
father  his  tea.  She  took  her  own  with  him,  setting  the 
teapot  back  on  the  stove,  to  keep  hot  for^her  brothers. 
Old  Nettlebj  fell  asleep  immediately  after  tea,  with  his 
'pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  Ann  went  back  to  her  netting, 
wondering  once  more  what  Chenie  was  about,  and  wish- 
ing she  could  have  such  fine  times  as  her  elder  sister. 
Could  she  only  have  seen  in  some  magic  min*or  what  was 
at  that  moment  going  on  in  a  humble  little  Wesleyan 
chapel  in  a  retired  street  of  the  town!  The  building 
dimly  lighted  by  one  flickering  candle ;  a  minister,  or  what 
looked  like  one,  in  white  neckcloth  and  clerical  suit  of 
black;  the  tall  and  distinguished  man,  wearing  a  shroud- 
ing cloak,  and  the  little  girl,  who  trembled  and  quivered 
60  fearfully,  standing  before  him,  while  he  pronounced 
them  man  and  wife ;  and  that  other  tall  young  man,  with 
his  hands  in  his  coat-pockets,  listening  and  looking  on  1 
Could  Ann  Nettleby  only  have  seen  it  aU,  and  known  that 
her  pretty  sister  was  that  very  night  a  bride ! 

Val  Blake  was  certainly  the  soul  of  punctuaHty.  As 
the  clock  on  the  kitchen-mantel  was  striking  ten,  the  cab 
stopj)ed  once  more  at  the  cottage-door,  and  she  heard  his 
unceremonious  voice  bidding  Chcme  good-night.  Ann 
opened  the  door,  and  Cherrie,  her  vail  still  down,  brushed 
past  her  without  saying  a  word,  and  flitted  up  the  staircase 
to  her  own  room. 

It  was  half  an  hour  later  when  Ann  Nettleby's  two 
brothers  came,  dripping  like  water-dogs,  home  from  town ; 
and  Ann  having  admitted  them,  went  yawningly  up-stairs 
to  bed. 

"  I  say,  father,"  said  Rob  Nettleby,  pulling  off  his  wet 
jacket,  "  was  there  company  up  at  E,edmon  to-day  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  old  man.     "  Why  ?" 

"Oh,  because  we  met  a  carriage  tearing  by  just 
now,  as  if  Old  Nick  was  driving.  I  wonder  what  it  was 
about  2"  • 


MINING    THE    GROUND.  IM 

CHAPTEK  XI7. 

MINING  THE  GROUND. 


ISS  CHERRIE  ISTETTLEBY  was  not  a  young 
lady  of  very  deep  feeling,  or  one  likely  to  be 
«IV(M  sjj  ^o^^o  ov^erconie  by  romantic  emotion  of  any 
j^i^j^  sort.  Therefore,  before  a  week  stood  between 
her  and  that  rainy  July  night,  she  was  all  her 
own  self  again,  and  that  night  seemed  to  have  come  and 
gone  out  of  her  life,  and  left  no  trace  behind  it.  She  was 
Cherrie  Nettleby  still,  not  Mre.  Captain  Cavendish ;  she 
lived  in  the  cottage  instead  of  the  handsome  suite  of  apart- 
ments the  elegant  young  officer  occupied  in  the  best  hotel 
in  Speckport.  She  flaunted  in  the  old  gay  way  through 
her  native  town,  and  held  her  usual  evening  levee  of  young 
men  in  the  cottage-parlor  as  regularly  as  the  evening  came 
round.  It  did  seem  a  little  strange  to  her  at  first  that 
marriage,  which  makes  such  a  change  in  the  lives  of  other 
girls,  should  make  so  little  in  hers.  She  never  doubted 
for  a  single  second  that  she  was  really  and  legally  his 
wife,  and  Val  Blake  kept  his  own  counsel.  The  captain 
told  her  that  he  would  resign  his  commission  or  exchange 
into  the  first  homeward-bound  regiment ;  and  meantime 
she  was  to  be  a  good  girl  and  keep  their  secret  inviolably. 
She  was  to  encourage  Charley  Marsh  still — -poor  Charley! 
while  he  every  day  played  the  devoted  to  Nathalie. 

Cherrie's  wedding  night  had  been  nearly  the  last  of 
July.  The  crimson  gloiy  of  an  August  sunset  lay  on  the 
climbing  roses,  the  sweetbrier  and  Jioneysuckle  arches  of 
the  cottage,  and  was  turning  its  windows  into  sheets  of 
red  gold.  The  sun,  a  crimson  globe,  was  dropping  in  an 
oriflarame  of  indescribable  gorgconsuess  behind  the  tree- 
tops  ;  and  at  all  this  tropical  richness  of  light  and  color- 
ing, Cherrie,  leaning  over  her  father's  garden-gate, 
looked. 

There  were  not  many  passers-by  to  look  at  that  hot 


158  MININa     THE    GKOUND. 

August  eveninff ;  but  presently  up  the  dusty  road  came  a 
young  man,  well-dressed  and  well-looking.  Cherrie  knew 
him,  and  greeted  him  with  a  gracious  smile,  for  it  was  Mr. 
Johnston,  Captain  Cavendish's  servant.  Mr.  Johnston, 
with  a  look  of  unqualilied  admiration  at  her  dark,  bright 
face,  took  ofi  his  hat. 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Nettleby.  Ain't  it  shocking  'ot  ? 
Been  to  the  picnic  to-day  ?" 

Cherrie  nodded. 

"  'Ad  a  good  time,  I  'ope.  "Weren't  you  nearly  melted 
with  the  'eat?" 

"Yes,  it  was  warm,"  said  Cherrie;  "got  anything 
for  me  ?" 

"A  letter,"  said  Mr.  Johnston,  producing  the  docu- 
ment, "  which  he'd  'ave  come  himself  honely  hold  Major 
Grove  hinvited  'im  to  dinner." 

Cherrie  eagerly  broke  open  the  envelope  and  read : 

"  Dkarest  : — Meet  me  to-night,  at  half -past  eight,  in 
the  cedar  dell,  without  fail.  Destroy  this  as  soon  as 
read.  G.  S." 

Cherrie  tore  the  note  into  atoms,  and  strewed  them 
over  the  grass. 

"  There  was  to  be  a  hanswcr,"  insinuated  Mr.  J  ohii- 
ston. 

"  Tell  him  yes,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  that  is  all." 

Mr.  Johnston  took  off  his  hat  once  more,  and  himself 
immediately  after.  Ann  Nettleby,  at  the  same  moment, 
came  to  tlie  door  to  tell  Cherrie  tea  was  ready ;  and  Cher- 
rie went  in  and  partook  of  that  repast  with  her  father, 
sister,  and  brothers. 

"  Did  you  hear,  boys,"  said  old  Nettleby,  "  that  Lady 
Leroy  has  sold  Partridge  Farm  ?" 

"  Sold  Partridge  ;^rm  !"  repeated  Rob.  "  No  !  has 
she,  though  ?    Who  to  ?" 

"  To  young  Mr.  Oaks,  so  Midge  tells  me  ;  and  a  rare 
penny  she'll  get  for  it,  I'll  warrant  you." 

"  What  docs  Oaks  want  of  it,  i  wonder  ?"  said  his 
other  son.     "  He  isn't  going  to  take  to  farming." 


MINING     THE    GBOUIW.  150 

"  Oaks  is  the  richest  fellow  in  Speckport,"  said  Rob 
Nettlebj;  "he  has  more  money  a  great  deal  than  he 
knows  what  to  do  with,  and  he  may  as  well  lay  it  out  in 
property  as  at  the  garni ng-f able." 

"  Does  he  gamble  ?"  asked  Cherrie,  helping  herself  to 
bread  and  biUter. 

Her  brother  laughed  significantly. 

"  Doesn't  he,  though  ?  You  may  find  him  and  that 
Captain  Cavendish  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  in  Prince 
Street." 

"  Is  Captain  Cavendish  a  gambler  ?"  said  Ann ;  "  that's 
bad  for  Miss  Natty.  They  say  they're  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

Cheme  smiled  to  herself,  and  Eob  went  on  speaking. 

"  It's  bad  for  Miss  Nathalie,  for  that  Cavendish  is  a 
villain,  for  all  his  fine  aire  and  graces,  and  is  leading  her 
brother  to  the  devil.  I  met  him  and  young  McGregor 
coming  from  Prince  Street  last  night,  and  they  hadn't  a 
leg  to  put  under  them — either  one." 

"  Drunk  ?"  said  Cherrie,  stirring  her  tea. 

"  Drunk  as  lords,  the  pair  of  'em.  I  helped  them  both 
home,  and  found  out  afterward  how  it  was.  They  had 
gone  with  Cavendish  to  the  gaming-house  as  usual,  had 
lost  heavily  also,  as  usual,  and,  excited  and  maddened,  had 
drank  brandy  until  they  could  hardly  stand.  Young  Mc- 
Gregor will  fleece  his  father  before  he  stops ;  and  where 
Mareh's  money  comes  from,  I  can't  tell." 

"  You  ought  to  teU  Miss  Natty,  liob,"  said  his  father. 
"  I  should  not  like  to  see  hei  throw  hereelf  away  on  such 
a  man,  such  a  handsome  and  pleasant-spoken  young  lady 
as  she  is." 

"  Not  I,"  said  his  son,  getting  up ;  "  she  wouldn't 
thank  me,  and  it's  none  of  my  business.  Let  Charley  tell 
her,  if  he  likes — a  poor  fellow  like  me  has  no  call  to  inter- 
fere with  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

Cherrie,  with  a  little  disdainful  toss  of  her  black  curls, 
but  discreetly  holding  her  tongue,  went  into  the  front 
room  and  seated  hereelf  with  a  novel  at  the  window.  She 
read  until  a  quarter  past  eight,  and  it  grew  too  dark  to 
see ;  then,  rising,  she  wrapped  herself  in  a  plaided  shawl 


160  MINING     THE    GROUND. 

and  crossed  the  deserted  road  unobserved.  Cedar  dell, 
the  place  of  ti*yst,  was  but  a  few  yards  off — the  green  hol- 
low in  the  woods  where  Cherrie  had  told  the  captain  of 
the  result  of  her  eavesdropping ;  a  delightful  place,  shut 
in  by  the  tall,  dai-k  trees,  with  a  carpet  of  velvet  sward, 
and  a  rustic  bench  of  twisted  boughs.  Cherrie  sat  down 
on  the  bench  and  listened  to  the  twittering  of  the  birds  in 
their  nests,  the  restless  murmuring  and  swaying  of  the 
trees  in  the  ni^ht-wind,  and  watclied  the  bhie  patches  of 
sky  and  the  pale  rays  of  the  new  moon  glancini^  in  and 
out  of  the  black  bougns.  All  the  holy  beauty  ot  the  pale 
summer  night  could  not  lift  her  heai-t  to  the  Creator  who 
had  made  it — she  was  only  waiting  for  the  fall  of  a  well- 
known  step,  for  the  sound  of  a  well-known  voice.  Both 
came  presently.  The  branches  were  swept  aside,  a  step 
crashed  over  the  dry  twigs,  a  pale  and  handsome  face, 
with  dark  eyes  and  mustache,  mider  a  broad-briumied  hat, 
looked  in  the  white  moonlight  through  the  opening,  and 
the  expected  voice  asked  :• 

"  Are  you  there,  Cherrie  ?" 

"  Yes,  George,"  said  Cherrie  composedly.  "  Come 
in." 

Captain  George  Cavendish  came  in  accordingly,  em- 
braced her  in  very  husbandly  fashion,  and  sat  down  beside 
her  on  the  bench.  The  gloom  of  the  place  and  the  hat 
he  wore  obscured  his  face,  but  not  so  much  but  that  the 
girl  could  see  how  pale  ft  was,  and  notice  something  strange 
in  his  voice  and  manner. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "Did 
you  want  anything  xQry  particular,  George  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  impressive  voice,  taking  both 
her  hands  in  his,  and  holding  them  tightly.  "  I  want  you 
to  do  me  the  greatest  service  it  may  ever  be  in  your 
power  to  render  me,  Cherrie." 

Cherrie  looked  up  at  his  white,  set  face,  feeUug 
frightened. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  1  can  for  you,  George.  What  is 
it«" 

"  You  know  you  are  my  wife,  Cherrie,  and  that  my 
interests  are  yours  now.    Wouldn't  you  like  1  should  be- 


MINING     TEE     Q  ROUND.  161 

come  rich  and  take  you  away  from  this  place,  and  keep 
you  like  a  lady  all  tlie  rest  of  your  life  ?" 

Yes — Cherrie  would  decidedly  like  that,  and  gave  him 
to  understand  accordingly, 

"  Then  you  must  take  an  oath,  Cherrie — do  you  hear? 
— an  oath  to  obey  me  in  all  things,  and  never  reveal  to 
living  mortal  what  I  shall  tell  you  to-night." 

Kow,  Cherrie,  thinking  very  little  of  a  falsehood  on 
ordinary  occasions,  hold  an  oath  to  be  something  solemn 
and  sacred,  and  not  to  be  l)roken,  and  hesitated  a  little. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  something  hard — somethijig  I  can't  do. 
X  feel  afraid  to  take  an  oath,  George." 

"  You  must  take  it !  It  is  not  a  matter  of  choice,  and 
I  will  ask  nothing  3'ou  can't  do.  You  must  only  swear  to 
keep  a  secret." 

"  Well,  I'll  try,"  said  Cherrie,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  I  hate 
to  do  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  do !"  he  said,  breaking  into  a  slight 
smile ;  "  it  is  not  in  your  line,  I  know,  to  keep  secrets, 
Cherrie ;  but  at  present  there  Is  no  help  for  it.  x  ou  know 
what  an  oath  is,  don't  you,  Cherrie  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  swear  never  ti>  reveal  what  I  am  about  to 
say  to  you  f 

"  Yes,"  said  Cherrie,  her  curiosity  getting  the  better 
of  her  fear.     "  I  swear !     Wl*at  is  it  ?" 

Was  it  the  gloom  of  the  pl"ee,  or  some  inward  stmggle, 
that  darkened  so  his  han(lson«e  face.  The  silence  lasted 
80  long  after  her  question,  that  Cherric's  heart  began  to 
beat  with  a  cold  and  nameless  fear.  lie  turned  to  her  at 
last,  holding  both  her  hands  in  his  own,  and  so  hard  that 
she  could  have  cried  out  with  the  pain. 

"  You  have  sworn,  Cherrie,  to  )\clp  me.  Say  you  hope 
you  may  die  if  you  ever  break  tbot  oath.     Say  it !" 

The  girl  repeated  the  frightfn.'  words,  with  a  shiver. 

"  Then,  Cherrie,  listen,  and  don't  vream.  I'm  going  to 
rob  Lady  Leroy  to-morrow  night." 

Cherrie  did  not  scream ;  but  she  ^ave  a  gasping  cry, 
and  her  eyes  and  mouth  opened  to  their  widest  extent. 

"  Going  to  rob  Lady  Leroy,"  repeateil  GantAij?  Caven- 


162  MININO     THE    GROUND. 

dish,  looking  at  her  fixedly,  and  magnetizing  her  with  his 
powerful  glance,  "  to-morrow  night ;  and  I  want  you  to 
help  me,  Cherrie." 

"  But — but  they'll  put  you  in  prison  for  it,"  gasped 
Cherrie,  all  aghast. 

"  No,  they  won't,  with  your  help.    I  mean  they  shall 

Eut  somebody  else  in  prison  for  it ;  not  through  any  dis- 
ke  to  him,  poor  devil,  but  to  avert  suspicion  from 
myself.  WiU  you  help  me,  Cherrie?  Kemember,  you 
have  sworn." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  shivgr^  noor  Cherrie,  "  but 
oh  !  I  am  dreadfully  scare^^  ''  ^' 

"  There  is  no  need — yoc.  pai-t  will  ^g  very  easy,  and 
to-morrow  afternoon  you  shall  leave  iSpeckport  forever." 

Cherrie's  face  turned  radiant. 

"  "With  you,  George !  Oh,  I  am  so  glad !  Tell  me  what 
you  want  me  to  do,  and  see  if  I  don't  do  it." 

"  That  is  my  good  little  wife.  Now  then  for  explana- 
tions. Do  you  know  that  Lady  Leroy  has  sold  Partridge 
Farm?" 

"  To  Mr.  Tom  Oaks — yes,  and  that  he  js  coming  up 
to-morrow  to  pay  her  eight  thousand  pounds  for  it." 

"  Who  told  you  ?" 

"  Father  and  the  boys  were  talking  about  it  at  tea. 
Georj^e,  is  that  the  money  you're  going  to  steal  ?" 

"It  is."  I  am  .deucedly  hard-up  just  at  pi-esent,  Cher- 
rie, and  eight  thousand  would  be  a  godsend.  Now,  my 
dearest,  you  must  be  up  at  the  house  when  Oaks  comes, 
and  find  out  where  the  money  is  put."  \ 

"  I  know  where  she  always  keeps  the  money,"  said 
Cherrie ;  "  and  she's  sure  to  put  this  with  the  rest.  It  is 
in  that  black  japanned  tin  box  on  the  stand  at  the  head  of 
her  bed," 

"  Very  well.  You  see,  I  must  do  it  to-morrow  night, 
for  she  never  would  keep  so  large  u  sum  in  the  house ;  it 
will  go  into  the  bank  the  day  after.  The  steamer  for 
Halifax  leaves  to-morrow  night  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  I 
ehall  go  to  Halifax  in  her." 

"  And  take  me  with  you  ?"  eagerly  asked  Cherrie. 

"  No ;  you  must  go  in  another  direction.     Until  our 


MINING     THE    GROUND.  163 

marriage  is  made  public,  it  never  would  do  for  us  to  go 
together,  Clierrie.  Let  me  see.  You  told  me  once  you 
had  a  cousin  up  in  Greentown,  wlio  wanted  you  to  visit 
lier,  did  not  you  ?" 

"  Yes — Cousin  Ellen." 

"  Well,  there  is  a  train  leaving  Speckport  at  half-past 
five  in  the  afternoon.  You  must  depart  by  that,  and  you 
will  be  in  Greentown  before  nine.  Take  care  to  make 
your  departure  as  public  as  possible.  Go  into  Speckport 
early  in  the  morning,  and  bid  everybody  you  know  good- 
bye. Tell  them  you  don't  know  how  long  you  may  be 
tempted  to  stay." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cherrie,  with  ..  submissive  sigh. 

"  All  but  one.  Y  ou  must  tell  Charley  Mai-sh  a  different 
story." 

"  Charley !  Why,  what's  Charley  Marsh  got  to  do 
with  it  ?" 

"  A  good  deal,  since  I  mean  he  shall  be  arrested  for 
the  robbery.  1  hate  to  do  it,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it, 
Cherrie.  You  told  me  the  other  day  tliat  he  was  getting 
desperate,  and  wanted  you  to  elope  with  him." 

"  So  he  did,"  said  Cherrie.  "  He  went  on  dread- 
fully ;  said  he  was  going  to  perdition,  and  you  were  drag- 
ging him  down,  but  he  would  take  me  from  you  if  he 
could.  He  wanted  me  to  go  with  him  to  the  United 
States,  and  we  would  be  married  in  Boston." 

"  And  you — what  is  this  you  told  him,  Cherrie  ?" 

"  I  told  him  I  would  think  about  it,  and  give  him  his 
answer  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Very  well.  Give  him  his  answer  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. Call  at  the  office,  and  tell  him  you  consent  to  run 
away  with  him,  but  that,  to  avoid  suspicion  for  a  few  days, 
you  are  going  to  give  out  you  are  olf  on  a  visit  to  your 
cousin  in  Greentown.  That  you  will  actually  stai-t  in 
the  cai-s,  but  will  step  quietly  out  at  the  first  station,  which 
is  only  three  miles  from  town,  and  that  you  will  walk 
back  and  get  to  Speckport  about  dark.  You  understand, 
Cherrie?  You  are  not  really  to  do  this,  only  to  tell 
Marsh  you  will." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cherrie,  looking  hopelessly  bewildered. 


164  MINING     THE    GSOTJND.' 

"Tell  him  to  come  to  Redmon  between  eight  and 
nine,  to  call  at  your  cottage  first,  and  if  jou  are  not  there, 
to  go  to  Lady  Leroy's  and  wait  there  as  long  as  he  can. 
If  you  are  not  there  before  the  house  is  closed,  he  is  to 
wait  in  the  grounds  for  you  in  front  of  the  house  until 
you  do  come.  I  will  enter  by  tliat  back  window  you 
showed  me,  Cherrie,  and  the  probability  is  Charley  will 
wait  all  night,  and,  of  course,  will  be  seen  by  several 
people,  and  actually  suspected  of  the  robbery." 

"  It  seems  a  pity,  though,  don't  it  ?"  said  Cherrie,  her 
woman's  heart  touched  for  poor  Charley. 

"  If  he  is  not  suspected,  I  will  be,"  said  Captain  Cav- 
endish, sternly.     "  Remember  your  oath." 

"  I  remember.     Is  there  anything  else  ?" 

"  Yes ;  you  must  send  hira  a  note  in  the  afternoon. 
Ann  will  fetch  it  for  yon.  To-morrow  is  Thursday,  and 
at  eight  in  the  morning  the  steamer  leaves  for  Boston." 

"  Here,"  said  the  young  man,  putting  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  producing  a  slip  of  paper,  "  is  a  draft  of  the 
note  you  are  to  send  hira,  written  in  pencil.  Copy  it 
word  for  word,  and  then  tear  this  up.  Listen,  and  I  will 
read  it." 

More  from  memory  than  the  pale  moon's  rays  glancing 
through  the  woods.  Captain  Cavendish  read : 

"  Dear  Charley  : — I  forgot  to  tell  you  this  morning, 
when  I  consented  to  elope  with  j'ou,  that  you  had  better 
go  down  to  the  steamboat  office  to-day  and  secure  state- 
rooms, so  that  we  may  conceal  ourselves  as  soon  as  we  go 
on  board.  You  can  pay  for  this  out  of  that  money ;  it 
will  do  us  more  good  than  it  ever  would  do  that  miser  of 
a  Lady  Leroy.    Ever  yours, 

"Cherrie  !N'ettleby." 

"  What  money  ?"  inquired  Cherrie.  "  What  money  is 
he  tc  pay  for  the  staterooms  out  of  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.  When  you  see  him  in  the  morning, 
give  him  this,"  producing  a  bank  note.  "  I  know  he  has 
not  a  stiver,  and  I  got  this  from  Oaks  myself  yesterday. 
It  is  for  ten  pounds,  and  Oaks's  initials  were  scrawled  on 


MININO     THE    Gnou:n).  165 

it,  as  he  has  a  fashion  of  doing  with  all  his  bills.  Tell 
him  Lady  Loroy  gave  it  to  your  father  in  payment,  and 
ho  presented  it  to  you.  Charley  will  take  it ;  he  is  too 
hard  up  to  be  fastidious.  Your  note  will,  no  doubt,  be 
found  upon  him,  and  convict  him  at  once." 

"'There's  another  thing,"  said  Cherrie.  "When 
Charley's  arrested  and  my  name  found  to  that  note,  they'll 
think  I  knew  about  the  robbery,  and  come  up  to  Green- 
town  after  me.     What  should  I  do  then  ?" 

" That  is  true,"  said  the  captain,  thoughtfully.  "Per- 
haps, after  all,  then,  you  had  better  not  go  to  your  cousin's. 
Go  on  to  Bridgeford  ;  it  is  thirty  miles  further  up,  and  a 
quiet  out-of-the-way  place,  where  no  one  ever  stops,  hard- 
ly. There  is  one  hotel  there,  where  you  can  stay  quietly 
for  a  few  days,  and  then  slip  off  and  get  board  in  some 
farmer's  house.  Call  yourself  Miss  Smith,  and  write  to 
me  when  you  are  settled,  telling  all  the  particulars.  Dis- 
guise your  hand  in  writing  the  address,  and  I  will  run  up 
and  see  you  as  soon  as  I  safely  can,  and  settle  our  future 
plans.  Now,  you  are  sure  you  remember  and  imderstand 
all  I  have  been  saying  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  but,  oh,  dear  me  !  I  feel  just 
as  nervous  and  as  scared  !  What  will  they  do  to  Charley? 
Maybe  they'll  hang  him  !" 

"  l^ot  the  least  fear  of  it.  If  they  put  him  in  prison, 
I'll  try  and  get  him  clear  oS.  You  say  they  always  go  to 
bed  for  certain  at  nine  o'clock  at  Kcdmon  house?" 

"  At  nine  to  a  minute ;  but  Lady  Leroy  always  locks 
her  door,  nights.     How  will  you  get  in  ?" 

Captain  Cavendish  sjniled. 

"  If  it  all  was  as  eas}''  as  that,  it  would  be  a  simple  af- 
fair. Don't  look  so  discouraged,  my  darling  black  eyes. 
With  eight  thousand  pounds  in  my  pocket,  and  the 
prettiest  little  girl  in  wide  America  as  my  \vife,  I  vnW.  be 
off  to  merry  England,  and  you  and  I  will  forget  this  land 
of  fog  and  lish.  Vn\  off  now,  Cherrie  ana  perhaps  it 
may  be  two  or  three  weeks  before  I  shall  see  you  again, 
BO  take  care  of  youi"self.  Here  are  eight  sovereigns  to 
pay  your  expenses;  and  be  sure  you  write  tome  from 
iiridffeford." 


166  MINING    THE    GROUND, 

He  got  up,  but  Cherrie  clung  to  hira,  crying: 

"  On,  I  am  afraid  1  O  George,  I  am  tifraid  I  will 
never  see  you  again." 

"Little  simpleton,"  he  said,  giving  her  a  parting 
caress,  "  what  can  happen  if  you  do  your  part  bravely! 
If  you  fail,  then,  indeed,  we  will  never  meet  again.'* 

Cherrie's  tears  were  falhng  fast  now. 

"I  will  not  fail;  but— but " 

"  But  what,  my  darling  ?" 

"  When  you  go  to  Halifax,  perhaps  you  will  never 
come  back;  perhaps  you  will  never  come  to  Bridge- 
ford." 

"  Cherrie,  you  are  a  goose !  Don't  you  know  I  am 
in  your  power, and  that  I  must  come  back?  Come,  stop 
crying  now,  and  give  me  a  kiss,  and  say  good-bye.  It 
won't  be  long,  you  know." 

One  other  parting  caress,  and  then  he  was  gone. 

Cherrie  listened  until  the  echo  of  his  footsteps  died 
out  in  the  distance,  and  then  she  threw  hereelf  on  her 
face  in  the  wet  grass,  lieedless  of  her  white  dress,  and 
cried  like  a  spoiled  child  whose  doll  has  been  taken  away. 
She  was  frightened,  she  was  excited,  she  was  grieved,  but 
she  was  not  remorseful.  There  was  little  compunction  in 
her  heart  for  the  part  she  was  to  play — betraying  the  man 
who  loved  her  and  trusted  her.  It  was  the  old  story  of 
Delilah  and  Samson  over  again. 

The  clocks  of  Speckport  striking  ten,  and  clearly 
heard  this  still  summer  night,  had  ceased  before  she  came 
out,  her  cheeks  pale,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  There 
was  a  dull  circle  round  the  moon,  foreboding  a  coming 
storm ;  but  what  was  there  to  give  warning  to  poor 
Charley  Marsh  of  the  storm  about  to  bui-st  upon  him  'i 

Ann  Nettleby  was  at  the  door  waiting  patiently  for 
Cherrie.  She  tm-ned  crossly  upon  her  when  she  ap- 
peared. 

"  I  wish  you  wouid  learn  to  come  home  earlier,  and 
not  keep  folks  out  of  their  beds  all  night.  What  were 
you  doing  in  the  woods  ?" 

"  Crying,"  said  Cherrie,  quite  as  crossly  as  her  sister. 


8PRIN0INQ     TEE    MINE.  167 

"I'm  tired  to  death  of  this  dull  place.  I'll  go  o£E  to 
Greentown  to-morrow." 

"  I  wish  to  mercy  you  would ;  the  rest  of  us  would 
have  some  peace  theu.  Did  you  expect  Charley  Marsh 
to-night  ?" 

"No;  why?" 

"He's  been  here,  then,  and  only  just  gone.  Come  in, 
and  let  me  lock  the  door." 

Cherrie  went  up  to  her  room,  but  not  to  sleep.  She 
sat  by  the  window,  looking  out  on  the  quiet  road,  the 
black  woods,  and  the  moon's  sickly,  watery  glimmer,  while 
the  long  houi"8  dragged  slowly  on,  and  her  sister  slept. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  eventful  to-morrow — the  to- 
morrow that  was  to  be  the  beginning  of  a  new  life  to 
her. 


CHAPTER  XT. 

SPRINGING  THE  MINE. 

HEN  Mr.  Eobert  Nettleby  informed  his  family 
circle  that  Charley  Marsh  was  going  to — well, 
to  a  certain  dark  spirit  not  to  be  lightly  named 
in  polite  literature,  he  was  aboil t  right.  That 
young  gentleman,  mounted,  on  tTie  furious 
steed  of  extravagance,  was  galloping  over  the  road  to  ruin 
at  the  rate  of  an  express  train. 

Not  alone,  either ;  young  McGregor,  Tom  Oaks,  Es- 
quire, and  some  dozen  more  .young  Speckjmrtians,  wero 
keeping  him  company — and  all  ran  nearly  abreast  in  the 
dizzy  race. 

'  The  terrible  terminus — Disgrace,  Misery,  and  Sudden 
Death — looked  very  near  to  some  of  them,  very  near,  in- 
deed, to  the  brother  of  Nathalie.  He  had  taken  to  hard 
drinking  of  late,  as  a  natural  sequence  of  the  other  vice ; 
gamblers  must  drink  to  drown  remorse,  and  it  was  no  un- 
usual thing  now  for  him  to  bo  helped  home  by  pitying 


168  8PB1NGING     THE    MINE. 

friends,  and  carried  up-stairs  to  bed.  How  the  mother 
cried  and  scolded;  how  the  sister  wept  in  passionate 
shame  and  sorrow  in  the  silence  of  her  own  room ;  how 
he,  the  prodigal,  suffered  after,  Heaven  only  knows,  but  it 
never  came  to  anything. 

Next  day's  splitting  headache,  and  insuperable  shame 
and  remoi-se,  must  be  drowned  in  brandy ;  that  fatal 
stimulant  brought  the  old  delusive  hopes — ^he  must  go 
back,  he  must  win. 

He  was  over  four  hundred  dollai-s  indebted  to  Captain 
Cavendish  now,  without  possessing  one  dollar  in  the  world, 
or  the  hope  of  one,  to  pay  liim.  He  had  ceased  to  ask 
money  from  Nathalie — she  had  no  more  to  give  him,  and 
Alick  McGregor  and  Tom  Oaks  found  enough  to  do  to 
foot  their  own  bills. 

Strange  to  say,  the  primary  mover  of  this  mischief, 
the  arch-tempter  himself,  George  Percy  Cavendish,  re- 
mained unsuspected,  save  by  a  few,  and  went  altogether 
unblamed:  Captain  Cavendish  seldom  lost  his  money, 
never  his  temper ;  never  got  excited,  was  ever  gentleman- 
ly and  cool,  though  half  the  men  about  him  were  mad 
with  liquor  and  losses,  and  ready  to  hold  pistols  to  their 
heads  and  blow  their  miserable  brains  out. 

Nathalie,  humbled  to  the  very  dust  with  shame  for 
Charley,  never  suspected  her  betrothed  lover — never  for 
one  second  ;  in  her  eyes  he  was  the  incarnation  of  «ill  that 
was  honorable  and  good. 

It  was  in  one  of  his  fits  of  rage  and  remoi-se  that 
Charley  had  asked  Cherrie  to  fly  with  him.  Not  that  he 
expected  to  atone  by  that ;  but,  far  from  Speckport,  which 
enchanting  town  was  fast  becoming  hateful  to  him,  and 
with  her  as  his  wife,  he  hoped  to  begin  a  new  life,  away 
from  those  he  had  disgraced.  He  hated  Captain  Caven- 
dish with  a  furious  and  savage  hatred,  and  it  would  be  a 
demoniac  satisfaction  to  tear  Cherrie  from  him.  For, 
with  tlie  eyes  of  jealousy,  Charley  saw  his  game,  though 
all  Speckport  was  blind.  MissNettlcby,  at  her  old  game 
of  fast  and  loose,  had  put  him  o£E  indefinitely.  And, 
casting  bitter  reproaches  to  Fate,  after  the  manner  of  Dick 


SPRINGING     THE    MINE.  ISO 

Svrivoller,  Charley  Mareh  let  himself  drift  with  the  rapid 
current,  bearing  him  along  to  a  fearful  end. 

The  day  that  came  after  the  night  spent  by  Cherrie 
and  Captain  Cavendish  in  the  cedar  dell  was  one  of  scorch- 
ing, broihng  heat  and  sunshine.  The  sun  was  like  a  wheel 
of  red  flame,  the  sky  of  burnished  brass,  the  bay  a  sea  of 
amber  lire. 

Tlirough  all  the  liery  glare  of  this  fierce  August  morn- 
ing, went  Charley  Marsh  to  the  office  of  Dr.  Leach.  No 
longer  the  Charley  Marsh  who  had  been  the  life  of  Mrs. 
McG-regor's  party,  that  foggy  May  evening  when  Captain 
Cavendish  had  tirst  appeared  in  Speckport,  but  a  pale, 
sunken-cheeked,  hollow-eyed  vision,  with  parched  and 
feverish  lip,  and  gaze  that  shrunk  from  meeting  that  of 
his  fellow-men.  His  temples  seemed  splitting,  his  eyes 
ached  with  the  blinding  gleam,  and  he  could  have  cursed 
the  heat  in  his  impious  impatience  and  sulfering.  He 
glanced  down  toward  the  shining  bay,  and  thought,  if  it 
iiad  only  looked  blue  and  cool,  instead  of  being  a  lake  of 
tire,  he  could  have  gone  and  lain  down  in  its  pleasjint 
waters,  and  escaped  forever  from  the  miseries  of  this  Ufe, 
at  least. 

"Chariey!" 

The  voice  at  his  elbow  made  him  bound.  He  turned 
and  saw  Cherrie  Nettleby,  her  shining  ebon  ringlets  freshly 
curled,  her  black  eyes  dark  and  dewy,  her  rosy  cheeks 
bright  and  unwilted,  her  dress  airy  and  cool — unflushcd, 
uuheated ;  basking,  hke  a  little  salamander,  in  the  genial 
sunlight,  and  wearing  the  smile  of  an  angel.  Charley 
could  scjirce  believe  his  eyes. 

"  You  here,  Cherrie !"  he  cried,  "  this  blazing  day. 
Have  you  been  in  Speckport  all  night  ?" 

"  No,  I  got  a  drive  in  this  morning,  and,  Charley," 
dropping  her  wicked  eyes,  "  I  came  to  see  you  1" 

They  were  near  the  office.  The  surgery  looked  cool 
and  shady,  and  Charley  opened  the  door  and  ushered  the 
J  oung  lady  in.  The  sliopboy  had  the  place  to  himself,  and 
he  retreated  to  a  distant  comer,  with  a  knowing  ^in,  at 
sight  of  the  i).ar.  Dr.  Leach  was  rarely  at  homo,  reople 
would  persist  in  devouring  new  j)otatoes,  and  green  peas, 


170  SPRINGING     TRE    MINE. 

and  cucumbers,  and  striug-beans,  and  other  green  stuils, 
and  having  pains,  and  cramps,  and  eholera  afterward,  and 
the  doctor  was  fairly  run  ofi  his  legs — that  is  to  say,  hia 
hoi-se  was. 

"  How  nice  and  cool  it  is  in  here,"  said  Cherrie ;  "  it's 
the  hottest  day  came  this  summer,  I  think.  What  a  hurry 
you  were  in  leaving,  last  night,  Charley." 

"  Hurry !     It  was  past  ten." 

"  Well,  I  came  in  a  few  minutes  after,  and  was  so  mad 
when  I  found  you  were  gone.  I  got  such  a  jawing  for 
being  out !  I  won't  stand  it,"  cried  Miss  Cherrie,  nying 
out  in  an  affected  temper  ;  "  I  just  won't !" 

"  Stand  what  ?" 

"  AVhy,  being  scolded  atid  put  upon  the  ;way  I  am ! 
It's  dreadful  dull,  too,  and  I  am  getting  tired  of  the  place 
altogether;  and  so,  I  am  going  to  leave  it." 

"With  me,  Cherrie f 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do !  I'm  off  this  very  day ;  I'll  not 
stand  it  a  minute  longer — so,  if  you  want  me  to  go  with 
you,  you  haven't  much  time  to  spare  !" 

Charley  grasped  both  her  hands,  his  pale  face  lighting 
with  ecstasy ;  and  the  shopboy  behind  the  pestle-and-mor- 
tar  grinned  delightedly  at  the  scene,  although  he  could 
not  hear  a  word. 

"  My  darling  Cherrie  !"  Charley  cried,  "  you  have 
made  me  the  happiest  fellow  alive  !  Wait  until  to-morrow, 
and  we  will  be  off  in  the  boat  to  Boston." 

Miss  Nettleby  fell  to  musing. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do,  she  said,  at  length.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  Boston,  and  the  trip  in  the  steamboat 
will  be  nice.  But,  look  here,  Charley,  I've  gone  and  told 
our  folks  and  everybody  else  that  I  was  going  to  Green- 
town,  in  this  afternoon's  train,  and  it  won't  do  to  back 
out." 

"  But  you  must  back  out,  Cherrie  !  You  canuot  go  to 
Greentown  and  to  Boston,  both." 

Cherrie  put  on  her  considering-cap  again,  only  for  a 
moment,  though,  and  then  she  looked  up  witli  a  sparkling 
face. 

"  I  have  it,  Charley  1    The  nicest  plan  I    This  evening, 


SPRINGING     THE    MINE.  171 

at  half-past  five,  I'll  go  off  in  the  cars,  and  every  "one  will 
think  I've  gone  to  Greentown,  so  my  absence  to-morrow 
won't  be  noticed.  I'll  get  out  at  the  first  station,  three 
miles  off,  and  walk  back  home,  bnt  won't  go  in.  About 
eight  to-night  you  call  at  our  house,  pretending  you  don't 
know  about  my  being  off,  you  know ;  and  when  our  Ann 
tells  you  I  have  gone,  you  go  up  to  Lady  Lcroy's  and  stay 
till  bed-time.  Then  wait  around  the  grounds  in  front  of 
the  house,  and  I'll  come  to  you  about  ten.  I  can  stop  in 
one  of  the  hotels  here,  where,  they  don't  know  nic.  I'll 
wear  a  thick  vail  until  morning,  and  then  we  will  hide 
on  board  the  boat.  Isn't  it  a  splendid  plan,  Charlc}"  ? 
They'll  think  I'm  in  Greentown,  and  never  suspect  we 
have  gone  off  together !" 

No  i30or  fiy  ever  got  entangled  in  a  spider's  web  more 
readily  than  did  Charley  Marsh  in  that  of  Captain  Caven- 
dish. He  thought  the  plan  was  capital,  and  he  told 
her  so. 

"  You  must  be  sm'e  to  wait  in  front  of  the  house  until 
I  come,"  said  the  wicked  little  enchantress,  keeping  her 
black  eyes  fixed  any wliere  but  on  his  face.  "And  here, 
Charley — now  don't  refuse — it  is  only  a  trifle,  and  I  won't 
go  with  you,  if  you  don't  take  it.  I  don't  suppose  you 
have  much  money,  and  father  made  it  a  present  to  me 
after  J^ady  Leroy  paid  him.  I  must  go  now,  because  I 
have  ever  so  nmch  to  do  before  evening.  Good-bye, 
Charley,  you  won't  forget  anytiiing  I've  said  ?" 

Forget !  That  face,  fair  in  spite  of  its  haggardness, 
was  radiant.  Bad  as  Cherrie  was,  she  had  not  the  heart 
to  look  at  him  as  she  huiTied  out  of  the  shop  and  down 
the  street.  If  he  had  only  known ! — if  he  had  only  known  1 
— known  of  the  cunning  trap  laid  for  him,  into  which  he 
was  falling  headlong — if  he  had  only  loiown  wiiat  was  to 
take  place  that  fatal  night ! 

Ciiarley  Marsh  did  not  go  home  to  his  dinner ;  he  had 
dinner  enough  for  that  day.  All  that  long  sweltering 
afternoon  he  sat  in  the  smothering  little  back-office,  staring 
out  at  the  baked  and  blistered  backyard,  and  weaving,  oh ! 
such  radiant  dreams  of  the  future.  Such  dreams  as  we  all 
weave ;  as  we  see  wither  to  shreds,  even  in  the  next  hour. 


172  SI'MNOLNG    TEE    MUm. 

Visions  of  a  tome,  far,  very  far  from  Speckport,  where 
the  past  should  be  atoned  for  and  forgotten — a  home  of 
which  Cherrie,  his  darling  little  Cherrie,  should  be  the 
mistress  and  fireside  fairy. 

It  was  some  time  past  five,  when,  awakening  from 
these  blissful  day-dreams,  Charley  Mai*sh  found  that  the 
little  back  office  was  so  insufferably  hot  as  not  to  be  borne 
any  longer,  and  that  a  most  extraordinary  change  had  come 
over  the  sky,  or  at  least  as  much  of  the  firmament  as  was 
visible  from  the  dirty  office-window.  He  took  his  hat  and 
sauntered  out,  pausino;  in  the  shop-door  to  stare  at  the 
sky.  It  had  turned  uvid;  a  sort  of  ghostly,  greenish 
glare,  all  over  with  wrathful  black  clouds  and  bare  of 
blood-red  streaking  the  western  horizon.  Not  a  breath  of 
air  stirred  ;  the  trees  along  the  streets  of  Speckport  and  in 
its  squares  hung  motionless  in  the  dead  calm,  and  feathers 
apd  bits  of  paper  and  straw  lay  on  the  sidewalk.  The  sea 
was  of  the  same  ghastly  tinge  as  sky  and  air,  as  if  some 
commotion  in  its  watery  bowels  had  turned  it  sick.  And, 
worst  of  all,  the  heat  was  unabated,  the  planked  sidewalks 
scorched  your  feet  as  you  walked,  and  you  gasped  for  a 
mouthful  of  air.  Speckport  declined  taking  its  tea ;  its 
butter  was  butter  no  longer,  but  oil ;  its  milk  had  turned 
sour,  and  the  water  from  the  street-hydrants  nearly  warm 
enough  to  make  tea  of,  without  boiling  at  all.  There 
were  very  few  out  as  Charley  walked  down  Queen  Street, 
but  among  these  few  he  encountered  Mr.  Val  Blake,  strid- 
ing in  the  direction  of  Great  St.  Peter  Street. 

Val  nodded  familiarly. 

"  Hot  day,  Charley.  Going  to  be  a  thunder-storm,  I 
take  it.  By  the  way,  she'll  have  an  ugly  night  for  her 
journey." 

"Who  will?" 

"  Little  Cherrie,  of  course ;  she's  off  to  Greentown, 
man !  Didn't  you  know  it  ?  I  was  down  at  the  station 
ten  minutes  ago,  and  saw  her  off.     How's  the  mother  ?" 

"  Getting  better.  Good  afternoon,  Val,"  said  Charley, 
passing  on,  and  smiling  at  the  news  Mi'.  Blake  had  told 
Lim. 


SPRINGING     THE    MINE.  178 

"  Wliat  a  clever  head  tlie  little  darling  has  to  put  them 
off  the  scent  1     Hallo,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

Some  one  had  shouted  after  him  ;  and  turning  round, 
he  saw  Master  Bill  Blair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  hat 
cocked  on  one  side  of  his  head,  following  at  an  extremely 
leisurely  pace. 

"  I  want  you  to  hold  on.  I'll  go  part  of  the  way  with 
vou,  for  I'm  going  home  tQ  tea,"  replied  Mr.  Blair,  not 
nurrying  himself.  "  It's  hot  enough  to  roast  an  ox,  it  is. 
You  don't  suppose  the  sky  has  got  the  jaundice,  do  you; 
it  is  turned  as  yellow  as  a  kite's  claw." 

"  You  had  better  send  up  and  inquire,"  said  Charley, 
shortly,  preferring  his  own  thoughts  to  this  companion- 
ship. 

"  I  say,  Marsh,"  said  Bill,  gi-inning  from  ear  to  ear, 
"  Cherrie  8  gone,  hasn't  she  ?  Good  riddance,  I  say.  What 
took  her  streaking  off  to  Greentown,  and  whatever  will 
you  do  without  her  ?" 

Mr.  Marsh  came  to  a  sudden  stand-still — they  were  in  a 
quiet  street — and  took  Mr.  Blair  by  the  collar. 

"  Look  you  here.  Master  Bill,"  said  Charley,  emphati- 
cally, "  you  see  the  water  down  there !  Well,  now  take 
warning ;  the  next  time  I  find  you  making  too  free  use  of 
that  tongue  of  yours,  I'll  duck  you !   Mind  !   I've  said  it !" 

With  which  Mr.  Marsh  released  him,  and  stalked  on. 
Mr.  Blair,  pretty  well  used  to  being  collared,  took  this 
admonition  so  much  to  heart,  that  he  leaned  against  a 
lamp-post,  and.  went  off  with  a  roar  of  laughter  that  awoke 
all  tne  sleeping  echoes  of  the  place. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  cottage  parlor  when  Charley 
went  in ;  and  on  the  lounge  in  the  sitting-room  his  mother 
lay  asleep.  He  went  soitly  up-stairs  to  his  own  room,  so 
as  not  to  awake  her.  That  poor,  pale,  peevish,  querulous, 
novel-reading,  fond  mother,  when  should  he  see  her 
again? 

A  murmur  of  voices  caught  the  young  man's  ear  as  he 
ascended ;  it  came  from  Miss  Rose's  room — the  door  of 
which,  that  sultry  evening,  stood  half  open.  Charley 
glanced  in.  Miss  Rose,  sitting  at  a  little  table,  was  writ- 
ing, and  an  old  woman  on  a  chair  near,  with  her  shawl  and 


174  SPRINOmO     THE    MINE, 

bonnet  on,  rocked  to  and  fro,  and  dictated.  Charley  kne\9 
Miss  Rose  was  scribe  to  all  the  poor  illiterate  of  Speck- 
port,  and  knew  she  was  at  one  of  those  sacred  tasks  now. 
He  saw  the  pale,  sweet  face  in  profile ;  the  drooping  white 
eyelids,  hiding  the  hazel  eyes,  and  the  brown  hair,  damp 
and  loose,  falling  over  her  mourning-dress.  He  thought  of 
what  Nathalie  had  said — "If  you  must  marry  any  one, 
why  not  Miss  Rose  ?"  as  he  closed  the  door  without  dis- 
turbing them.  * 

"  JS  o,  Natty,"  he  mentally  answered.  "  Miss  Rose  is 
an  angel,  which  I  am  not,  unless  it  be  an  angel  of  dark- 
ness. No ;  she  is  too  innocent  and  good  for  such  a  fellow 
as  I  am.  I  wouldn't  marry  her  if  I  could,  and  couldn't,  I 
dare  say,  if  I  would. 

He  changed  his  dress,  and  packed  his  tmnk,  layin;;  out 
a  long  waterproof  coat  on  the  bed,  as  a  shield  against  the 
coming  rain.  Before  he  had  finished,  he  heard  Betsy  Ann 
calling  Miss  Rose  to  tea.  That  reminded  him  he  had  had 
no  dinner,  and  was  hungry ;  so  he  went  down  stall's,  and 
Mrs.  Marsh,  at  sight  of  inm,  broke  out  in  petulant  com- 
plainings. 

Why  had  he  not  come  home  to  dinner  ?  Where  had 
he  been  ?  What  was  the  reason  it  was  so  hot,  and  why 
was  he-.in  evening  dress  ?  And  Charley  laughed  good-hu- 
moredly  as  he  took  his  place  at  the  table. 

"  Be  easy,  mother  mine !  Who  could  think  of  so  pre- 
posterous a  thing  as  dinner  this  sweltering  day  ?  I  have 
been  in  the  office  since  morning." 

"  Catty  Clowrie  was  in  here  some  time  ago,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Marsh,  feebly  stirring  her  tea,  "  and  she  told  me 
Cherrie  Nettleby  had  gone  away  up  the  country.  What's 
taken  her  off  ?" 

Miss  Rose  was  kind-hearted  enough  not  to  look  at  him, 
and  his  mother  was  without  her  specs ;  so  neither  noticed 
the  hot  flush  that  arose  to  his  face. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  Am  I  Miss  Nettleby's  confi- 
dant? Was  Nathalie  in  the  school-room  to-day,  Miss 
Rose?" 

"No." 


8PRIN0INQ     THE    MINE.  175 

"  It  was  too  hot,  I  suppose.  This  intense  closeness  can 
only  end  in  a  thunder-storm." 

"  I  fancy  we  will  have  it  shortly.  The  sky  looks  fear- 
ful ;  it  has  turned  perfectly  livid." 

The  meal  ended,  Charley  walked  to  the  window  over- 
looking the  wide  sea,  and  stood  blankly  gazing  out.  It 
was  nearly  seven — time  he  was  off  to  Redmon ;  and  yet. 
with  love  and  Cherrie  beckoning  him  on,  he  was  hesitating 
When  should  he  stand  here  again — in  this  pleasant  home 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  years  ?  When,  indeed  ? 
He  was  going  to  his  fate,  as  we  all  go,  blindly ;  and  there 
was  no  foreshadowing  dread  to  whisper  to  him — stand 
back. 

The  clock  struck  seven.  It  was  possible  to  linger  no 
longer.  He  went  over  to  where  his  mother  sat,  and  bent 
over  her.     Miss  Rose  in  the  next  room  was  practicing. 

"Mother!"  Ciiarley  said,  trying  to  la'.i:^!i,  and  speak- 
ing very  fast,  "  I  have  not  been  a  very  good  boy  lately, 
but  I  am  going  to  turn  ovqy  a  new  leaf  from  to-day.  You 
can  forgive  the  past,  motlier  dear,  can  you  not,  if  1  promise 
better  for  the  future  ?" 

Mrs.  Marsh  looked  up  at  him  rather  surprised,  but  still 
peevish. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure.  You  have  been  act- 
ing disgracefully  of  late,  just  as  if  you  wanted  to  break 
my  heart." 

"  But  I  don't,  mother,  and  I  am  going  to  amend.  And 
when  after  this  you  hear  others  speaking  ill  of  me,  you 
will  be  my  defender,  will  you  not,  mother  ?" 

"  Of  course,  Charles,"  his  mother  said,  pettishly,  "  if 
you  deserve  it." 

"  Good-bye,  then,  mother ;  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
try  and  forgive  me." 

He  kissed  her,  and  hastily  left  the  room.  Miss  Rose 
faintly  and  sweetly  was  playing  some  evening  hymn.  He 
stopped  a  moment  to  look  at  the  slight  black  figure — for 
the  last  time,  perhaps,  he  thought. 

"  Good-bye,  Miss  Rose,"  he  called  out ;  "  I  am  off." 

She  turned  round  with  a  smile. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Marsh  1  There  is  a  storm  coming — 
take  care  1" 


17«  SPMINGINO     THE    MII^E. 

How  little  she  dreamed  of  the  stonn  that  was  coming 
when  she  gare  him  that  warning.  He  went  out  of  the 
cottage,  closing  the  hall  door  after  him  ;  and  the  street 
and  the  figures  in  it  looked  blurred  to  him,  seen  through 
some  foolish  mist  in  his  eyes. 

With  the  waterproof  overcoat  thrown  across  liis  arm, 
his  umbrella  in  his  hand,  and  his  hat  pulled  far  over  his 
eyes,  Charley  Marsh  walked  through  the  streets  of  Speck- 
port  steadily  to  his  fate.  There  was  an  ominous  hush  in 
the  stifling  atmosphere,  a  voiceless  but  terrible  menace  in 
the  sullen  sky,  the  black  and  glassy  bay,  and  the  livid-hued 
evening.  Cnarley's  thoughts  wandered  to  Cherrie.  The 
storm  would  overtake  her  coming  to  town  ;  she  would  get 
drenched,  and  frightened  half  to  death,  for  it  was  going 
to  lighten.  He  could  not  walk  fast,  owing  to  the  heat, 
and  night  fell  before  the  Nettleby  cottage  came  in  sight. 
With  it  fell  the  storm,  flash  after  flash  of  lightning  cleav- 
ing black  cloud  and  yellow  air  like  a  two-edged  sword — 
flash  after  flash,  blinding,  intermittent,  for  nearly  five 
minutes.  Then  a  long  dull  roar,  that  seemed  to  shake  the 
town,  with  great  plashing  drops  of  rain,  as  large  and  heavy 
as  peas.  And  then  the  tempest  buret  in  its  might — flash, 
flash,  flash ! — the  heavens  seemed  one  sheet  of  name — the 
earth  rocking  with  the  ceaseless  roll  of  thunder,  and  the 
rain  descending  in  toiTents.  Some  low  spruce-bushes,  a 
zigzag  fence,  his  glazed  overcoat  and  umbrella,  were  shelter 
enough  for  Charley.  He  sat  on  a  rock  by  the  wayside,  his 
hands  over  his  eyes,  feeling  as  though  the  flerce  blue  glare 
had  struck  liim  blind.  The  summer-hurricane  was  sub- 
lime in  its  fury,  but  too  violent  to  last  long.  In  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  the  lightning  and  thunder  had  ceased, 
but  the  rain  still  fell  heavily.  Charley  got  up,  drew  out 
his  watch,  struck  a  match — for  the  night  had  struck  in 
pitch  black — and  looked  at  the  hour.  A  quarter  to  nine, 
and  where,  oh  where,  in  all  this  tempest  was  poor  Cher- 
rie? He  hurried  on  at  a  frantic  pace,  fumbling  in  the 
blind  blackness,  until  the  red  light  of  the  cottage-window 
streamed  across  the  inky  gloom.  He  never  stopped  to 
imagine  what  they  would  think  of  his  presence  there  at 
such  a  time ;  he  was  too  full  of  anxiety  for  Cherrie.    She 


8PRINQINU     THE    MINE.  177 

might  have  hired  a  cab  and  driven  home,  frightened  by 
the  storm,  and  he  rapped  loudly  at  the  door.  Ann  .Net- 
tleby,  lamp  in  hand,  answered  his  authoritative  summons. 

"  Is  Cherrie  here,  Ann  ?" 

Ann  stared. 

"  Law,  Mr.  Marsh  !  how  should  she  be  here  ?  Don't 
you  know  she  went  off  to  Greentown  in  the  half-past  five 
train?" 

Charley  stood  looking  at  her,  so  pale  and  wild  and  wet, 
that  Ann  stared  at  hitn  harder  than  ever. 

"  Is  Lady  Leroy  worse  ?"  she  asked. 

"Worse!  Yes — no — I  don't  know.  Has  she  been 
ill  ?" 

"  She's  been  very  bad  all  the  day.  Dr.  Leach  has  been 
up  to  see  her,  and  our  Rob's  staying  there  all  night  for 
fear  she  should  take  another  bad  tiu*n,  and  some  one  should 
be  wanted  to  go  for  him  a^in." 

This  was  news  to  Charley. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  he  asked. 

"  Cramps.    Did  you  not  get  Cherrie's  letter  ?" 

"What?" 

"  Cherrie's  letter !  She  left  a  letter  for  you,  and  told 
me  to  fetch  it  to  town  to  you,  and  I  did  this  evening,  but 
you  weren't  in,  the  boy  said." 

"  Did  you  leave  it  at  the  office  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Charley  wondered  what  it  could  be  about,  but  he  did 
not  ask  Ann.  He  turned  and  walked  through  the  dark- 
ness and  the  slanting  rain,  to  Redmon  House.  The  outer 
gate  never  was  fastened,  and  he  went  under  the  dripping 
trees  up  to  the  castle  of  Lady  Leroy.  It  was  all  in  dark- 
ness, looming  up  a  blacker  spot  in  the  blackness,  but  one 
feeble  ray  shone  from  Nathalie's  room.  Charley  knew  it 
was  of  no  use  entering  then — ^past  nine — when  the  place 
was  closed  and  locked  for  the  night,  so  he  stood  under  the 
tall,  gaunt  trees,  and  watched  that  feeble,  flickering  ray. 
It  seemed  to  connect  him — to  bring  him  in  communion — • 
with  Nathalie ;  and  when  it  went  out,  and  all  was  dark 
and  lonely,  a  light — the  light  of  his  love  for  her — seemed 
to  go  out  of  his  heari  with  it. 
8* 


178  SPBTNGINO     TUB    MINE. 

And  now  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  for 
Cherrie.  He  seemed  to  have  bidden  farewell  to  all  his 
old  friends,  and  have  only  her  left.  His  past  life  seemed 
gliding  behind  him,  out  of  sight — ^a  newer  and  better  Kfe 
opening  before  liim,  with  her  by  his  side  to  share  it,  until 
thej  should  lie  down  at  the  far  end,  full  of  years  and  good 
works.  He  leaned  against  a  tree,  thinking  of  this,  and 
waiting.  The  storm  was  abating,  the  rain  ceasing,  the 
clouds  parting,  and  a  pale  and  watery  moon  staring  wanly 
across  the  gloom.  In  another  hour  the  clouds  were  scud- 
ding wildly  before  a  rising  gale,  and  the  moon  had  broken 
out,  through  their  black  bars,  lighting  up  the  grim  old 
house  with  an  eerie  and  spectral  gloom.  The  trees  looked 
like  tall,  moaning  ghosts  in  the  sickly  and  fitful  rays,  and 
the  loneliness  of  the  tomb  reigned  over  all.  Another 
weary  hour  of  watching,  and  Charley  was  nearly  mad  with 
impatience  and  anxiety.  Where — where — was  Cherrie  "i 
The  sighing  night-wind,  the  moaning  and  tossing  trees, 
the  ghastly  light  of  the  fitful  moon,  and  the  ominous  si- 
lence of  natm*e,  had  no  answer  to  give  liim. 

What  was  that  which  rent  the  silence  of  the  night  ?  A 
shriek  from  the  house  behind  him — a  woman's  shriek — 
the  sound  of  flying  feet,  a  key  turning  in  a  rusty  lock,  and 
the  front  door  thrown  vride  open.  Ln  sac  de  nuit,  which 
means,  in  a  short  night-gown  and  red  flannel  petticoat,  her 
head  tied  up  in  a  yellow  silk  handkerchief.  Midge  rushed 
frantically  out,  followed  by  a  man.  Charley  had  started 
forwai'd,  and  the  moon's  light  fell  full  upon  his  black  form 
in  the  middle  of  the  park.  Quick  as  lightning,  the  iron 
grasp  of  the  dwarf  was  upon  his  collar,  and  the  shrill  voice 
piercing  wildly  the  night  air :  "  1  have  him  I  I  have  him ! 
Murder  I  Murder  I  Murder  I" 


A     GRIME.  179 


CHAPTER  XYL 


A  CRIME. 

HAT  was  done  that  night  ? 

At  the  very  hour  of  that  fine  Angnst  morn- 
ing that  Mr.  Charles  Marsh  and  Miss  Cherrie 
Nettleby  had  the  surgery  of  Dr.  Leach  so  com- 
fortably to  themselves,  that  medical  gentleman 
was  up  at  Redmon,  helping  its  mistress  to  fight  out  a  bat- 
tle with  death.  Yes,  on  that  hot  summer  morning  Lady 
Leroy  was  likely  to  die,  stood  even  within  the  portal  of 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  and  Redmon  and  all  earthly  pos- 
sessions seem  about  to  slip  from  her  forever.  Good- 
natured  Miss  Jo,  in  the  early  morning,"' had  sent  up  a 
present  of  a  basket  of  cucumbers  and  lettuce,  of  both  of 
which  specimens  of  the  vegetable  kingdom  Mrs.  Leroy  had 
partaken,  well  soaked  in  vinegar,  a.s  a  sharpener  to  break- 
fast appetite.  The  consequence  was,  that  before  tlut  re- 
past was  well  down,  she  was  seized  -with  such  convulsive 
cramps  as  ouly  cholera  patients  ever  know.  Brandy 
applied  inwardly,  and  hot  flannel  and  severe  rubbing 
applied  outwardly,  being  without  avail,  Dr.  Leach  was 
sent  for  in  hot  haste.  The  old  woman  was  in  agonies,  and 
Nathalie  frightened  nearly  out  of  her  wits.  Dr.  Leach 
looked  grave,  but  did  his  best.  For  some  hours  it  was 
quite  uncertain  whether  he  or  the  grim  Rider  of  the  Pale 
Horse  would  gain  the  battle :  but  victory  seated  herself 
at  last  on  the  medicd  banner  of  the  Speck[X)rt  physician. 
Mi's.  Leroy,  totally  exhausted  with  her  tierce  suiferings, 
took  an  opiate  and  fell  asleep,  and  the  doctor  took  his  hat 
to  leave. 

"  She'll  do  well  enough  now,  Miss  Natty,"  he  said, 
"  only  pitch  the  cucumbei-s  into  the  fire  the  first  thing. 
She'll  be  all  right  to-morrow." 

Nathalie  sat  patiently  down  in  the  steaming  and  op- 
pressive sick-room,  to  keep  watch.    The  house  was  as  still 


180  .  A     CRIME. 

as  a  tomb ;  Midge  was  buried  in  the  regions  below,  and 
the  sick  woman  slept  long  and  profoundly. 

Nathalie  took  a  book,  and,  absorbed  by  it,  did  not 
notice  wlien  Lady  Leroy  awoke.  Awake  she  did,  after 
some  hours,  and  lay  there  quite  stiU,  looking  at  the  young 
y  girl,  and  thinking.  Of  what  ?  Of  the  k  ng  and  weary 
months  that  young  girl  had  in  a  "manner  buried  herself 
alive  in  this  living  tomb  of  a  house,  to  minister  to  her, 
to  arrange  aU  her  business,  to  read  to  her,  to  talk  to  her, 
to  do  her  all  manner  of  good  service,  and  to  bear  patiently 
her  querulonsness  and  caprice.  It  had  been  a  lonely  and 
eerie  life  for  her,  but  when  had  she  ever  complained? 
and  now  what  was  she  to  gain  by  it  all  1  For  one  act  of 
disobedience  she  was  disinherited — all  these  months  and 
years  wasted  for  nothing.  She  had  come  there  in  the 
belief — implanted  by  Mrs.  Leroy  herself — that  she  was  to 
be  the  heiress  of  Kedmon.  Had  she  any  right  to  go  back 
from  her  word — to  make  her  memory  accursed — to  go 
into  that  shadowy  and  unknown  world  opening  before  her 
with  a  lie  on  her  soul?  Dared  she  do  it ?  She  had  an 
awful  fear  of  death,  this  miserly  old  w^nan — an  awful 
fear  of  what  lay  beyond  death ;  and  yet,  with  strange  in- 
consistency, she  felt  herself  on  the  verge  of  the  grave — a 
long  life  of  sin  lying  behind  her,  and  making  no  effort  to 
atone — only  letting  herself  diift  on.  Yet  is  the  incon- 
sistency strange  ?  Are  we  not,  every  one  of  us,  doing  the 
same  ?  We  are  younger,  perhaps,  and  fuller  of  life ;  yet 
do  we  not  know  the  terrible  truth,  that  death  and  ourselves 
are  divided  but  by  a  single  step  ? 

Nathalie,  bending  over  her  book,  all  her  fair  hair  drop- 
ping loose  about  her,  saw  not  the  eyes  so  closely  watching 
her.  How  pale  she  looked.  Perhaps  it  was  the  fright,  not 
yet  over ;  perhaps  the  heat ;  but  her  face  was  like  a  lily- 
leaf.  While  she  watched  her.  Midge  came  softly  in,  and 
Mrs.  Leroy  closed  her  eyes  again. 

"  Is  she  sleeping  still  ?"  Midge  asked,  looking  toward 
the  bed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nathalie,  glancing  up. 

Midge  bustled  out,  and  presently  returned  with  a  cup 
of  t«aa. 


A     CRIME.  181 

"  Who  do  you  think  was  here  this  morning  to  say  good- 
bye?" she  asked,  while  Nathalie  was  drinking  it.  - 

"I  don't  know.     Who?" 

"  Cherrie  Nettleby,  no  less.  She  wanted  to  come  up 
here  whether  or  no,  to  see  you  and  the  missis,  but  I  sent 
lier  to  the  I'ight  about  quicker.  The  flyaway  good-for- 
nothing's  off  to  Grreentown  in  the- cars  this  afternoon." 

"  Indeed.     And  how  long  is  she  going  to  stay  ?" 

"  I  told  her  I  was  glad  to  'hear  it,"  said  Midge,  "  and 
that  I  hoped  she  wouldn't  come  bothering  back  in  a  hurry ; 
and  she  lauglied  and  shook  back  them  black  curls  of  here, 
and  said  perhaps  she  would  stay  all  summer.  The  place 
is  well  rid  of  her,  and  I  told  her  so." 

Nathalie,  reverting  to  Charley,  perhaps,  thought  the 
same,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  Midge  departed,  refreshed 
by  her  bit  of  gossip,  and  Nathalie  resumed  her  book. 
The  steaming  sick-room  was  irksome  enough  to  her,  but 
she  would  not  leave  Mrs.  Leroy  even  for  a  moment  in  her 
present  state.  That  old  lady  opened  her  eyes  again ;  and 
as  she  did  so.  Midge  came  bolting  back. 

"  Miss  Natty,  here's  Mr.  Tom  Oaks  come  to  pay  that 
there  money,  I  expect.     Shall  I  send  him  off  again  ?" 

-Before  Nathalie  could  reply.  Lady  Leroy  half  sat  up 
in  bed,  feeble  as  she  was,  the  ruling  passion  strong  in 
death. 

"  No,  no,  no !"  she  shrilly  cried,  "  don't  send  him  away. 
Fetch  him  up  here — fetch  him  up !" 

Nathalie  dropped  her  book  and  was  bending  over  her 
directly. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Lerov,  are  you  awake  ?  How  do  you  feel 
now?" 

"  Better,  Natty,  better.  Fetch  him  up.  Midge — fetch 
him  up." 

Midge  trotted  off,  soliloquizing  as  she  went : 

"  Well,  I  never !  I  do  think  if  she  was  dead  and 
buried,  the  sound  of  money  jingling  atop  of  her  grave 
would  bring  her  out  of  it.  You're  to  come  up,  Mr.  Oaks, 
Missis  is  sick  abed,  but  she'll  see  you." 

Mr.  Tom  Oaks,  a  dashing  young  fellow,  well  looking 


183  A     CRIME. 

of  face,  and  free  and  easy  of  manner,  strolled  in,  hat  in 
hand.     Nathalie  rose  to  receive  him. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Miss  Nathalie.  How  are  yoiij  Airs. 
Leroy  ?    Nothing  the  matter,  I  hope." 

"  She  is  better,  now,"  said  Nathalie,  placing  a  chair 
for  him  by  the  bedside. 

"  1  suppose  you've  come  up  to  pay  the  money  ?"  Mrs, 
Leroy  inquired,  her  lingers  be^nniug  to  work,  as  they 
always  did  when  she  was  excited. 

Yes,  Mr.  Oalcs  had  come  to  pay  the  money  and  obtain 
possession  of  the  documents  that  made  him  master  of 
Partridge  Farm.  Sundry  papei-s  were  signed  and  handed 
over — a  long  roU  of  bank-bills,  each  for  tifty  pounds,  were 
presented  to  Lady  Leroy  and  greedily  counted  by  her, 
over  and  over  again.  Tiien  Nathalie  had  to  go  through 
the  performance,  and  the  roll  wasf  ound  to  be  correct.  Mr. 
Oaks,  master  of  a  magniticent  farm,  bowed  himself  out, 
the  perspiration  streaming  from  every  pore. 

when  he  was  gone,  the  old  woman  counted  the  bills 
over  again — once,  twice,  three  times  ;  her  eyes  glittering 
with  the  true  miser's  delight.  It  was  not  to  make  sure  of 
their  accuracy,  but  for  the  pure  and  unalloyed  pleasure  it 
gave  her  to  handle  so  much  money  and  feel  that  it  was 
hers. 

A  knock  at  the  front  door.  Mrs.  Leroy  rolled  the  bills 
hastily  up. 

"  Give  me  the  box.  Natty ;  some  one's  coming,  and 
it's  not  safe  to  let  any  one  know  there's  so  much  money 
in  the  house,  and  only  three  poor  lone  women  of  us 
here." 

Nathalie  handed  her  the  large  japanned  tin  box  Chor- 
rie  had  spoken  of,  which  always  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  and  the  bills  were  placed  in  it,  the  tin  box  relocked 
and  replaced,  before  the  visitor  entered.  It  proved  to  be 
Lawyer  Darcy ;  and  Nathalie,  availing  hei-self  of  his 
presence,  left  the  room  for  a  few  moments  to  breathe 
purer  air. 

"  I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  of  your  illness,"  the  lawyer 
said,  ''and  ran  in  as  I  was  going  by,  although  I  am  in 
rather  a  hurij.    By  the  way,  I  am  expecting  every  day  to 


A     CHIME.  188 

be  STimmoned  back  here  to  alter  that  last  tinjust  will  of 
yotii's.  I  hope  you  have  begun  to  see  its  cruel  injustice 
yourself." 

"  Yes,"  Lady  Leroy  gravely  replied,  "  I  have.  There 
is  no  one  living  has  so  good  a  right  to  whatever  I  possess 
as  Nathalie  Marsh.  I  did  ^vrong  to  take  it  from  her,  but 
it  is  not  too  late  yet.  Come  up  here  to-morrow  morning 
and  draw  out  another — my  last  will — she  shall  have  every- 
thing I  own." 

The  old  lawyer  grasped  the  sick  woman's  hand  de- 
lightedly. 

"  Thank  heaven,  my  dear  Mrs.  Leroy,  that  you  have 
been  brouglit  to  see  matters  in  their  true  light.  Natty's 
the  best  girl  alive — ain't  you,  Natty  ?" 

"What,  sir?"  Nathalie  asked,  as  she  re-entered  the 
room. 

"The  best  and  prettiest  girl  alive!  There,  don't 
blush.  Good  afternoon  to  you  both.  I'll  be  up  to-morrow 
morning  without  fail,  Mrs.  Leroy,  and  I  trust  I  shall  find 
you  quite  I'estored." 

lie  went  out.  How  little  did  he  think  that  never 
again,  this  side  of  eternity,  should  he  meet  that  woman  ; 
how  little  did  he  think  that  with  those  words  he  had 
bidden  her  an  eternal  farewell. 

Midge  brought  up  some  tea  and  toast  to  her  mistress 
after  the  lawyer's  departure  ;  and  feeling  more  comforta- 
ble after  it,  the  old  woman  lay  back  among  her  pillows, 
and  requested  her  ward  to  "read  a  piece  for  her." 

The  book  Nathalie  was  reading  had  been  one  of  her 
father's,  and  she  loved  it  for  his  sake  and  for  its  own.  It 
was  not  a  novel,  it  was  "  At  the  Foot  of  the  Cross,"  by 
Faber  ;  and  seating  herself  by  the  bedside,  she  read  aloud 
in  her  sweet,  grave  voice.  The  touching  story  of  Calvary 
was  most  touchingly  retold  there ;  more  than  once  the 
letters  swam  on  the  page  through  a  tliick  mist  of  teare, 
and  more  than  once  bright  drops  fell  on  the  page  and 
blistered  it. 

The  long,  sultry  afternoon  hours  wore  over,  and  in 
that  shuttered  room  it  had  grown  too  dark  to  see  the 
words,    before   the   girl    ceased.     Tliero   was   a  silence ; 


184  A     OmME. 

NatliaKe's  heart  was  full,  and  Mrs.  Leroy  was  quiet,  look«? 
ing  unwontedly  thoughtful. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  book,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  a  beautiful 
book,  Natty  ;  and  it  does  me  good  to  hear  it.  I  wish  you 
had  read  to  me  out  of  that  book  before  !" 

"  I  will  read  it  all  through  to  you,"  Nathalie  said ; 
"  but  you  are  tired  now,  and  it  is  past  seven.  You  had 
better  have  some  tea,  and  take  this  opiate  and  go  to  sleep. 
You  will  be  quite  well  again  to-morrow." 

Nathalie  got  the  old  woman's  tea  herself,  and  made 
the  toast  with  her  own  white  hands.  Mi-s.  Leroy  wished 
her  to  share  the  meal,  but  Nathalie  could  not  eat  there ; 
the  steaming  and  fetid  atmosphere  of  that  close  chamber 
made  her  sick  and  faint.  She  was  longing  for  the  old 
woman  to  go  to  rest  for  the  night,  so  that  she  might  get 
out.  She  removed  the  tea-tray,  and  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  walk  in  the  grounds,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  will  be  back  by  eight  to  give  you  the  sleeping 
draught ;  and,  for  fear  you  might  be  taken  ill  again  in 
the  night,  I  will  ask  one  of  the  Nettlebys  to  sleep  liere." 

Witliout  hat  or  mantle,  she  ran  down-staire  and  out 
into  the  hot  twilight.  The  brassy  hue  of  the  sky,  and  the 
greenish-yellow  haze  filling  the  air,  the  ominous  silence  of 
nature,  and  the  scudding  black  clouds,  gave  her  warning 
for  the  first  time  of  the  coming  storm. 

She  went  down  the  avenue,  through  the  gate,  and 
along  the  dusty  road  to  the  cottage.  The  roses  about  it 
were  hanging  their  heavy  heads,  the  morning-glories  and 
the  scarlet-runners  looked  limp  and  wilted.  She  found  Ann 
washing  the  dishes,  and  the  two  young  Nettleby's  lying 
lazily  on  the  grass  behind  the  cottage,  smoking  pipes. 
Nathalie  preferred  her  request,  and  Rob  Nettleby  at  once 
volunteered. 

"I'll  go  up  in  half  an  hour.  Miss  Natty,"  he  said, 
"  and,  if  I'm  wanted,  I  can  gaUop  into  town  in  ten  min- 
utes." 

"  Thank  you,  Rob  I" 

She  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  lounging  a  minute  be- 
fore she  left. 


A     CRIME.  -laH 

"  And  so  Cberrie's  gone,  Ann  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ann ;  "  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  We  will 
have  some  peace  for  a  wliile,  •svhicli  we  don't  have  when 
she's  here,  with  her  gadding." 

Nathalie  walked  slowly  back  to  the  house,  wondering 
and  awed  by  the  weird  and  ghostly  look  of  the  sky.  The 
evening  was  so  cloie  and  oppressive  that  no  breath  of  air 
was  to  be  had ;  yet  still  it  was  better  than  the  house,  and 
she  lingered  in  the  grounds  until  the  lightning  shot  out 
like  tongues  of  blue  flame,  and  the  first  heavy  raindrops 
begian  to  fall. 

Hurrying  in  out  of  the  coming  storm,  followed  by 
Bob  Xettleby,  who  opined  it  was  going  to  be  a  "  blazer 
of  a  night,"  she  saw  that  all  the  doors  and  windows  were 
secured,  and  tlien  returned  to  Mrs.  Leroy's  room  to  ad- 
minister the  opiate.  She  found  the  old  woman  in  a  doze, 
from  which  her  entrance  aroused  her,  and  raised  her  with 
her  right  arm  in  bed,  while  she  held  the  glass  to  her  lips 
with  her  left  hand. 

"  It  will  make  you  sleep,  dear  Mrs.  Leroy,"  the  girl 
said,  "  and  you  will  be  as  well  as  ever  to-morrow." 

"  I  hope  so.  Natty. — Is  that  thunder  ?" 

"  Yes ;  it  is  going  to  be  a  storiny  night.  Is  there 
anything  else  I  can  do  for  you  before  I  go  ?" 

"  Yes ;  turn  down  that  lamp ;  I  don't  like  so  much 
light." 

A  little  kerosene  lamp  burned  on  the  table.  Nathalie^ 
lowered  the  light,  and  turned  to  go. 

"  Good-niglit,"  she  said,  "  I  will  come  in  once  or  twice 
through  the  night  to  see  how  you  are.  You  are  sure  you 
do  not  want  anything  more  ?" 

The  sleeping-potion  was  already  taking  effect.  The 
old  woman  drowsily  opened  her  eyesi 

"  No,"  she  said ;  nothing  else.  You're  a  good  girl, 
Natty,  and  it  was  wrong  to  do  it ;  but  I'll  make  it  all 
right,  Natty ;  I'll  make  it  all  right  I" 

They  were  the  last  words  sue  ever  spoke !    Nathalie 
wondered  what  she  meant,  as  she  went  into  her   own 
room,  and  Kt  her  lamp. 
,       The  storm  without  was  raging  fast  and  furious ;  the 


186  A   cbjme: 

blaze  of  the  lightning  filled  tiie  room  with  a  lurid  blue 
glare,  the  dull  and  ceaseless  roll  of  the  thunder  was  ap- 
palling and  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  in  torrents. 

"  Heaven  help  any  poor  wanderer  exposed  to  such  a 
tempest !"  Nathalie  thought. 

if  she  had  only  known  of  him  who  cowered  under  the 
spruce  bushes  on  Kedmon  road,  waiting  for  it  to  subside. 

Nathalie  brushed  out  her  long,  shining,  showering  curls, 
bathed  her  face,  and  said  her  prayers.  The  furious  and 
short-lived  tempest  had  raged  itself  out  by  that  time,  and 
she  blew  out  the  lamp  and  sat  down  by  the  window — it 
was  too  hot  to  go  to  bed.  She  made  a  pile  of  the  pillows, 
and  leaned  her  head  against  them  where  she  sat ;  and, 
with  the  rushing  rain  for  her  lullaby,  fell  asleep. 

What  was  that  ?  She  awoke  with  a  start.  She'knew 
she  had  not  slept  long,  but  out  of  a  disturbed  dream  some 
noise  awoke  her — a  sharp  metalHc  sound.  Her  room  was 
weirdly  lighted  by  the  faint  rays  of  the  wan  and  spectral 
moon,  and  with  her  heart  beating  thick  and  fast  she  lis- 
tened. The  old  house  was  full  of  rats — she  could  hear 
them  scampering  over  her  head,  under  her  feet,  and  be- 
tween the  partitions.  It  was  this  noise  that  had  awoke 
her;  the  trees  were  writhing  and  groaning  in  the  heavy 
wind,  and  tossing  their  green  arms  wildly,  as  if  in  some " 
dryad  agony — ^perhaps  it  was  that.  She  listened,  but 
save  these  noises  all  was  still.  Yes,  it  was  the  rats, 
NathaUe  thought,  and  settling  back  among  the  pillows 
once  more,  she  fell  into  another  light  slumber. 

No,  Nathahe.  Neither  the  wailing  wind,  nor  the 
surging  trees,  nor  the  scm'rying  rats  made  the  noise  you 
heard.  In  the  corridor  outside  your  room  a  tall,  dark 
figure,  with  a  black  crape  mask  on  its  face,  is  standing. 
The  figure  weai-s  a  long  overcoat  and  a  slouched  hat,  and 
it  is  fitting  a  skeleton  key  in  the  lock  of  Mi's.  Leroy's 
door ;  for  Nathalie  has  locked  that  door.  Like  some  dark 
and  evil  spirit  of  the  night,  it  ghdes  into  the  chamber ; 
the  lamp  on  the  table  burns  low,  and  the  old  woman 
sleeps  heavily.  Softly  it  steals  across  the  room,  lays  hold 
of  the  japanned  tin  box,  tries  key  after  key  from  a  bunch 
it  carries,  and  at  last  succeeds.     The  box. is  open — the 


A     CHIME.  187 

treasure  is  found.  Fifty — ^fiftj — fifty  !  they  are  all  fifties 
— fifty -pound  notes  on  good  and  sound  Speckport  banks. 
The  eyes  behind  the  mask  glitter — the  eager  hands  are 
thrusting  the  huge  rolls  into  the  deep  pockets  of  theover- 
coat.  I3ut  he  drops  the  l^t  roll  and  stops  in  his  work 
aghast,  for  there  is  an  awful  sound  from  the  bed.  It  is 
not  a  scream,  it  is  not  a  cry  ;  but  something  more  awful 
than  ever  came  from  the  throat  of  woman  in  all  the  his- 
tory of  woman's  agony.  It  is  like  the  death-rattle — 
.^loarse  and  horrible.  lie  turns  and  sees  the  old  woman 
sitting  up  in  bed,  one  flickering  finger  pointing  at  him, 
the  face  convulsed  and  livid,  the  lips  purple  and  foaming, 
the  eyes  starting.  One  cry,  and  all  for  which  he  has 
risked  so  much  will  be  lost !  He  is  by  the  bedside  like  a 
flasli ;  he  has  seized  one  of  the  pillows,  and  hurled  lier  back  ; 
lie  has  grasped  her  by  the  throat  with  one- powerful  hand, 
while  with  the  other  he  holds  the  pillow  over  her  face.  Fear 
and  fuiy  distort  liis  own — could  you  see  it  beliind  the 
mask — and  his  teeth  are  set,  and  his  eyeballs  strained. 
There  is  a  struggle,  a  convulsive  throe,  another  a.wful 
rattle  in  the  throat,  and  then  he  sees  the  limbs  relax,  and 
the  palpitating  throat  grow  still.  He  need  fear  no  cry 
now  ;  no  sound  will  ever  again  come  from  those  aged 
lips;  the  loss  or  gain  of  all  the  treasures  in  the  wideeaith 
will  never  disturb  her  more.  He  loosens  his  grasp,  re- 
moves the  pillow,  and  the  lamplight  falls  on  a  horrible 
sight.  He  turns  away  with  a  shudder  from  that  black- 
ened and  convulsed  visage,  from  the  starting  eyes  forced 
out  of  their  sockets,  and  from  the  blood  which  trickles 
in  a  slow,  dreadful  stream  between  purple  lips.  He  dare 
not  stop  to  look  or  think  what  he  has  done ;  he  thrusts  the 
last  roll  into  his  pocket  and  flies  from  the  room.  He  is 
so  furiously  impatient  now  to  get  away  from  that  horrible 
thing  on  the  bed,  that  he  forgets  caution.  He  flies  down 
the  staii-s,  scarcely  knowing  that  the  noise  he  makes 
eclioes  from  cellar  to  attic  of  the  silent  old  house.  Ho 
takes  the  wrong  turning,  and  swears  a  furious  oath,  to 
find  himself  at  a  door  instead  of  the  window  by  which  he 
had  entered.  He  hears  a  shriek,  too  ;  and,  mad  with  ter- 
ror, tears  o£E.his  mask  and  turns  down  another  passage. 


188  A     CRIME. 

Bight  at  last !  this  is  the  window !  He  leaps  through  it 
— ^ne  is  out  in  the  pale  moonlight,  tearing  through  the 
trees  like  a  madman.  He  has  gained  the  road — a  horse 
stands  tied  to  a  tree,  and  lie  leaps  on  his  back,  drives  his 
spurs  furiously  into  the  beast's  side,  and  is  o£E  like  the 
wind.  In  ten  minutes,  at  this  rate,  he  will  be  in  Speck- 
port,  and  safe.  

The  apartment  in  which  Midge  sought  sleep  after  the 
fatigues  of  the  day,  was  the  kitchen,  and  was  on  the  first 
floor,  directly  under  Lady  Leroy's  room.  Sijo  had  quar- 
tered Rob  Nettleby  in  the  adjoining  apartment — a  big, 
draughty  place,  where  the  rats  held  grand  carnival  all  the 
year  round.  Midge,  like  all  honest  folks  in  her  station, 
who  have  plenty  of  hard  work,  and  employ  their  hands 
more  than  their  heads,  was  a  good  sleeper.  But  on  this 
stormy  August  night  Midge  was  destined  to  realize 
some  of  the  miseries  of  wakefulness.  She  had  not 
dared  to  go  to  bed  during  the  first  fury  of  the  storm; 
for  Midge  was  scared  beyond  eveiything  by  lightning 
and  thunder ;  but  after  that  had  subsided,  she  had  ven- 
tured to  unrobe  and  retire.  But  Midge  could  not  sleep. 
Whether  it  was  the  heat,  or  that  the  tempest  had  made 
her  nervous,  or  why  or  wherefore,  Midge  could  never 
afterward  tell ;  but  she  tossed  from  side  to  side,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  didoes  of  the  rats,  and  the  whistling  of  the 
wind  about  the  old  house,  and  the  ghostly  moonlight 
shimmering  down  through  the  fluttering  leaves  of  the 
trees,  and  groaned  and  fidgeted,  and  felt  just  as  miserable 
as  lying  awake  when  one  wants  to  go  asleep,  can  make 
any  one  feel.  There  were  all  sorts  of  strange  and  weird 
noises  and  echoes  in  the  lonely  old  house ;  so  when  Midge 
fancied  she  heard  one  of  the  back  windows  softly  opened, 
and  something  on  the  stairs,  she  set  it  down  to  the  wind 
and  the  rats,  as  Nathalie  had  done.  She  heard  the  clock 
overhead  in  Lady  Leroy's  room — the  only  timepiece  in 
the  house — strike  eleven,  and  thought  it  had  come  very 
soon ;  for  it  hardly  seemed  fifteen  minutes  since  it  had 
struck  ten.  But  sne  set  this  down  to  her  fidgetiness,  too ; 
for,  how.  was  she  to  know  that  the  black  shadow  in  the 


A     CBIME.  189 

room  above  had  moved  the  hands  on  the  dial-plate  before 
quitting  ?  But  that  other  noise !  this  is  no  imagination, 
surely.  Midge  starts  up  with  a  gasping  cry  of  aSright. 
A  man's  step  is  on  the  stairs — a  man's  hurried  tread  is  in 
the  nail — she  hears  a  smothered  oath — hears  him  turn  and 
rush  past  her  door — hears  a  leap — and  then  all  is  still. 
The  momentary  spell  that  has  made  Midge  speechless  is 
broken.  She  springs  to  her  feet — ^yes,  springs,  for  Midge 
forgets  she  is  short  and  fat  and  given  to  waddling,  in  her 
terror,  throws  on  the  red  flannel  undergarment  you  wot 
of,  and  rushes  out  of  her  room  and  up-stairs,  shrieking 
like  mad.  She  cannot  conceive  what  is  the  matter,  or 
where  the  danger  lies,  but  she  bursts  into  Nathalie's  room 
first.  Nathalie,  aroused  by  the  wild  screams  from  a  deep 
sleep,  starts  up  with  a  bewildered  face.  Midge  sees  she 
is  safe,  and  still  uttering  the  most  appalling  yells,  liies  to 
the  next,  to  Lady  Leroy's  room,  Nathalie  after  her ;  and 
Mr.  Kob  Nettleby,  with  an  alarmed  countenance  and  in  a 
state  of  easy  undi*ess,  making  his  toilet  as  he  comes,  brings 
up  the  rear. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Is  Mrs.  Leroy  worse  ?"  he  asked,  staring 
at  the  shrieking  Midge. 

"  There's  been  somebody  here — robbing  and  murder- 
ing the  house  I     Ah — h — h !" 

The  shriek  with  which  Midge  recoiled  was  echoed 
this  time  by  Nathalie.  They  had  entered  the  fatal  room ; 
the  lamp  still  burned  on  the  table,  and  its  light  fell  full 
on  the  livid  and  purple  face  of  the  dead  woman.  Dead ! 
Yes,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  Murdered  1  Yes,  for 
there  stood  the  open  and  rifled  box  which  had  held  the 
money. 

"She's  kiUed,  Rob  Nettleby!  She's  murdered!" 
Midge  cried,  rushing  headlong  from  the  room ;  "  but 
he  can't  have  got  far.     I  heard  him  going  out.     Come !" 

She  was  down  the  stall's  with  wonderful  speed,  fol- 
lowed by  the  horriiied  Nettleby.  Midge  unlocked  and 
flung  open  the  hall-door,  and  rushed  in  the  same  headlong 
way  out.  There  was  a  man  under  the  trees,  and  he  was 
ninning.  With  the  spring  of  a  tigress  Mid^e  was  upon 
him,  her  hands  clutching  his  collar,  and  her  dreadful  yell 


190  A     CRIME. 

of  "  Murder !"  piercing  the  stillness  of  the  night.  The 
grasp  of  those  powerful  hands  was  not  to  be  easily  "Tsuaken 
oif,  and  Rob  Nettleby  laid  hold  of  him  on  the  other  side. 
Their  prisoner  made  no  resistance ;  he  was  too  -  utterly 
taken  by  surprise  to  do  other  than  stand  and  stare  at  them 
both. 

"  You  villain !  yon  robber  !*  you  murderer !''  screamed 
Midge,  giving  him  a  furious  shake.  "  You'll  hang  for 
this  night's  work,  if  anybody  hung  yet !  Hold  him  fast, 
Rob,  while  I  go  and  send  your  brother  to  Speckport  after 
the  p'lice." 

The  address  broke  the  spell  that  held  their  captive 
quiet.  Indignantly  endeavoring  to  shake  off  the 
hands  that  held  him,  he  angrily  demanded  what  they 
meant. 

Rob  Nettleby,  ^vith  a  shout  of  astonishment,  released 
his  hold — he  had  recognized  the  voice.  Midge,  too,  loosed 
her  grasp,  and  backed  a  step  or  two,  and  Charley  Marsh, 
stepping  fi-om  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees  into  the 
moonlight,  repeiited  liis  question  with  some  asperity. 

"  Ciiarley !"  Midge  gasped,  more  horror-stricken  by 
the  recognition  than  she  had  been  by  the  murder. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter,  Nettleby  ?"  Charley 
demanded,  impatiently.     "  What  is  all  this  row  about  ?" 

"There  has  been  a  murder  done,"  said  the  young 
man,  so  confounded  by  the  discovery  as  to  be  scarcely 
able  to  speak. 

"  Mrs.  Leroy  has  been  murdered !" 

Charley  recoiled  with  a  white  face. 

"Murdered!     Good  heavens!     When?    By  whom?'* 

"  To-night — just  now." 

He  did  not  answer  the  last  query — he  thought  it  super 
fluous.  To  his  mind,  Chai-ley  Marsh  was  as  good  as  caught 
in  the  act. 

"  And  jS"athalie  !     Where  is  she  ?    Is  she  safe  ?" 

"  She  is  in  Lady  Leroy's  room.'' 

Charley  only  waited  for  the  answer,  and  made  a  pre- 
cipitate iiisli  for  the  house.  The  other  two  followed, 
neither  daring  to  look  at  the  ether  or  speak — followed  him 
up-staii*s  and  into  the  chamber  of  the  tragedy.     All  \va3 


FOUND     GUILTT.  191 

as  it  had  been.  The  ghastly  and  discolored  face  of  the 
murdered  woman  was  there,  even  the  pillow,  horrible  to 
look  at.  But  going  partly  across  a  chair  as  she  had  fallen, 
all  her  golden  hair  tossed  about  in  loose  disorder,  and  her 
face  white,  and  fixed,  and  cold  as  marble,  Nathalie  lay 
near  the  center  of  the  room.  There,  by  herself,  where 
the  dreadful  sight  had  first  struck  her,  she  had  fainted 
entirely  away. 


CHAPTEK  XVII. 

FOUND  GUILTY. 

j^^lR.  YAL  BLAKE  sat  in  his  office,  in  that  inner 
^^^t;  room  sacred  to  his  privacy.  He  sat  at  that 
s^^'S^  littered  table,  writing  and  scissoring,  for  they 
W^'M^  went  to  press  that  day,  and  the  editor  of  the 
Speckport  Spouter  was  over  head-and-cars  in 
work.  He  had  just  completed  an  item  and  was  slowly  re- 
perusing  it.     It  begins  in  a  stai-tling  manner  enough : 

"  Mysterious  murder !  The  night  before  last  a  most 
shocking  tragedy  occurred  atRedmon  House,  being  no  less 
than  the  robbery  and  murder  of  a  lady  well  known  in  our 
town,  Mrs.  Leroy.  The  deceased  owned  and  occupied 
the  house,  together  ^vith  her  ward.  Miss  Nathalie  Marsh, 
and  one  female  servant.  About  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
night  of  the  loth,  this  servant  was  alarmed  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  aroused  a  youug  man, 
Kobert  Nettleby,  who  chanced  to  be  staying  in  the  house, 
and  they  proceeded  together  to  discover  the  cause.  Ou 
entering  the  chamber  occupied  by  Mi-s.  Leroy,  they  found 
her  dead;  the  protruding  tongue  and  eyeballs,  and  purple 
visage,  telling  plainly  her  death  had  been  caused  by  stran- 
gulation. A  box,  containing  a  large  sum  of  money,  eight 
thousand  pounds,  we  believe,  was  found  broken  open  and 


193  FUUND    QUILTT,. 

rifled.  The  assassin  escaped,  and  no  clue  to  him  has  as 
yet  been  discovered,  but  we  trust  tlie  inquest  which  is  to 
be  held  on  the  premises  this  morning  will  throw  some 
light  on  the  subject.  It  is  a  most  inhuman  affair,  and,  we 
are  sure,  no  efiort  will  be  wanting  on  the  part  of  the  of- 
ficials concerned  to  root  out  the  heart  of  the  matter,  and 
punish  the  barbarous  perpetrator  as  he  deserves !" 

Mr.  Blake  read  this  last  neatly-rounded  period  with  a 
complacent  face,  and  then  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Ten  o'clock !"  he  muttered,  "  and  the  inquest  com- 
mences in  half  an  hour.  Busy  or  not  busy,  i  must  be 
present." 

Speckport  was  in  a  state  of  unprecedented  excitement. 
A  murder — and  people  did  murder  one  another  some- 
times, even  in  Speckport — always  set  the  town  wild  for  a 
week.  Even  the  civic  elections  were  nothing  to  it ;  and 
there  having  been  a  dearth  of  bloodshed  lately,  the  tragedy 
at  Redmon  was  greedily  devoured  in  all  its  details.  Like 
a  rolh'ng  snowball,  smdJ  enough  at  first,  but  increasing  as 
it  goes  along,  the  story  of  the  robbery  and  murder  nad 
grown,  until,  had  Midge  heard  the  recital,  as  correctly  re- 
ceived in  the  town,  she  would  have  stared  aghast.  Crowds 
had  flocked  up  Redmon  l^oad  the  whole  of  that  livelong 
day  following  the  murder,  and  gazed  with  open-mouthed 
awe  on  the  gloomy  and  lonely  old  house — gloomier  and 
lonelier  than  ever  now.  Crowds  were  pouring  up  still. 
One  would  think  from  their  morbid  curiosity  they  expect- 
ed the  old  house  to  have  undergone  some  wonderful 
transformation.  The  Speckport  picnics  were  nothing 
to  it. 

Mr.  Blake,  going  along  at   his  customary  swinging 

{)ace,  speedily  reached  No.  14  Great  St.  Peter  Street,  and 
etting  liimself  in  with  his  latch-key,  went  up-stairs  to  his 
sleeping-apartment,  to  make  some  alteration  in  his  toilet 
before  proceeding  to  Redmon.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
house  ;  for  Miss  Blake  had  been  absent  on  a  visit  to  some 
friend  out  of  town  for  the  past  few  days,  and  Val  took 
his  meals  at  a  restimrant.  Thinking  hinit^elf  alone,  there- 
fore, Mr.  Blake,  standing  before  the  glass,  adjusting  an 


FOUND     OUILTT.  193 

obstinate  and  painfully  stiff  collar,  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised to  hear  the  street-door  open  and  shut  with  a  slam, 
then  a  rapid  rush  up-stairs,  a  strong  rustling  of  silk  in  the 
passage,  and  his  own  door  flung  violentlj  open.  Mr.  Blake 
turned  round  and  beheld  his  sister,  in  a  state  of  perspira- 
tion, lier  face  red  with  heat  and  haste,  anger  in  her  ejes 
and  in  every  rustle  of  her  silk  gown. 

"  It's  not  true,  Val !"  she  burst  out,  before  that  gen- 
tleman could  speak ;  "  it  can't  be  true !  They  never  can 
have  been  such  a  pack  of  fools !" 

"  What  can't  be  true  ?     Who's  a  pack  of  fools  ?" 

"  All  Speckport !  Do  you  mean  to  say  they've  really 
gone  and  taken  up  Charley  Marsh  ?" 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  said  Mr.  Blake,  returning  to  his 
toilet.  "  They  haven't  taken  him  up  that  I  know  of. 
What  brings  you  home  ?  I  thought  you  weren't  coming 
until  Saturday." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  thought  I  could  stop 
one  moment  after  I  heard  that  poor  old  thing  was  dead, 
and  Charley  Marsh  taken  up  for  it.  If  you  can  be  un- 
feeling and  cold-blooded,"  said  Miss  Jo,  turning  from  deep 
pink  to  brightest  scarlet,  "  I  can't." 

"  My  dear  Jo,  don't  make  such  a  howling !  Charley 
Marsh  isn't  taken  up,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  he's  suspected,  isn't  he  ?  Doesn't  all  Speckport 
point  at  him  as  the  murderer  ?  Isn't  he  held  to  appear 
at  the  inquest  ?     Tell  me  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  looking  critically  at  his  cravat, 
"  he  is.     Is  that  collar  straight,  Jo  ?" 

Miss  Jo's  only  answer  was  a  withering  look. 

"  And  he  can  talk  of  collars  at  such  a  time !  And  he 
pretended  he  used  to  be  a  friend  of  that  poor  boy !" 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jo,"  said  Val,  testily.  "  What  can 
I  do  ?     I  don't  accuse  him !" 

"  You  don't  accuse  him  I"  retorted  Miss  Jo,  with 
sneering  emphasis.  "  That's  very  good  of  you,  indeed, 
Mr.  Blake !  Oh  no,  you  don't  accuse,  but  you  stand  up 
there,  like — like  a  cold-blooded  kangaroo"  (Miss  Blake 
could  think  of  no  better  simile  in  the  heat  of  the  moment) 
'•  lixing  your  collar,  while  all  Speckport's  down  on  him, 
9 


194  FOUND     OUILTT. 

and  no  one  to  take  lus  part!  You  won't  accuse  liira, 
indeed !  Hadn't  you  better  mn  up  and  do  it  now  % 
"Where's  Natty  ?     Answer  me  that." 

Miss  Jo  turned  so  fiercely  upon  her  brother  with 
this  query  that  Mr.  Blake  wilted  at  once. 

"  At  home  with  her  mother  !" 

"  Poor  dear  girl !"  and  here  Miss  Jo  softened  into 
teai's ;  "  poor  dear  child !  What  a  shock  for  her !  How 
does  she  bear  it  ?" 

"She  has  been  ill  and  hysterical  ever  since.  They 
don't  suppose  she  will  be  able  to  give  evidence  at  the 
inquest." 

"Poor  dear  Natty  I  And  how  does  Mrs.  Mai-sh 
take  it  r 

"  Very  hard.  Betsy  Ann  had  to  run  to  the  nearest 
druggist's  for  fourpence-worth  of  smelling-salts,  and  she 
has  been  rocking,  and  reading,  and  smelling  at  it  ever 
since." 

"  Ah,  poor  dear !"  said  sympathetic  Miss  Jo,  whose 
first  fury  had  subsided.  "  Does  she  know  they  suspect 
Charley  V' 

"  Of  course  not.  "Wlio  would  tell  her  that  ?  Oh, 
I  say,  Joanna,  you  haven't  heard  that  about  Miss  Rose, 
have  you  ?" 

"  What  about  Miss  Rose  ?  Nobody  suspects  her  of 
the  murder,  do  they  ?" 

"  Not  exactly !     She  is  going  away." 

"  Going  where  ?" 

"  To  England  ! — ^hand  me  that  vest,  Jo — ^with  Mrs. 
Major  Wheatley." 

Miss  Jo  sat  agape  at  the  tidings. 

"  It  is  very  sudden,"  said  Val,  getting  into  his  Sunday 
waistcoat.  "Miss  Rose  had  notice  of  it  day  before 
yesterday — it  was  that  night,  the  night  of  that  terrible 
affair  at  Redmon,  you  know,  that  it  was  proposed  to  her. 
She  declined  then,  although  the  terms  were  double  what 
she  gets  now,  and  the  W',>rk  very  much  less ;  but  yester- 
day afternoon  she  accepted." 

"  She  did  !    What  made  her  change  her  mind  ?" 


FOUND     QZriLTY.  195 

"  "Well,  Mrs.  Marsh  told  her,  I  believe,  that  now  Lady 
Leroy  was  gone,  and  Nathalie  come  into  her  fortune, 
there  would  no  longer  be  any  need  to  keep  the  school, 
and  that,  in  point  of  fact,  it  would  break  up.  Of  course, 
Miss  Kose  at  once  accepted  the  other  ofEer,  and  leaves  in 
a  very  few  days." 

"  Direct  for  England  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  to  say,  by  way  of  Quebec.  Mrs.  Major 
"Wheatley   is  a  very  great  lady,  and    must  have  a  com- 

S anion  for  hei*self,  and  a  governess  for  her  little  girl,  and 
[iss  Rose  suits  to  a  T.  It's  a  very  good  thing  for  the 
little  school-mistress,  but  she  will  be  missed  here.  The 
poor  looked  upon  her  as  an  angel  sent  direct  from  heaven, 
to  make  their  clothes  and  buy  tlieir  blankets,  and  look 
after  them  when  sick,  and  teach  their  young  ones  for 
nothing," 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  !  I  declare,  Yal,  I'm  sori-y !  She 
was  the  nicest  little  thing !" 

"  So  she  was,"  said  Val,  "  and  now  I'm  off !  Don't 
you  go  howling  about  the  town,  Jo,  and  making  a  fuss 
about  Marsh;  if  he  is  innocent,  he  will  come  out  all 
square — don't  you  be  afraid," 

"  If !"  screamed  Miss  Blake ;  but  her  brother  was 
clattering  down-stairs  half  a  dozen  steps  at  a  time,  and 
already  out  ©f  hearing. 

Droves  of  people  were  still  flocking  out  the  Eed- 
mon  road,  raising  blinding  clouds  of  dust,  and  discussing 
the  only  subject  proper  to  be  discussed  then  in  Speckport. 
Val's  long  strides  outstripped  all  competitors ;  and  arriving 
at  the  red  brick  house,  presently  ran  the  blockade  of  a 
group  of  some  two  hundred  idlers,  and  strode  into  the 
house  as  one  having  authority.  As  Mr.  Blake  entered, 
Dr.  Leach  stepped  forward  and  joined  him,  with  a  very 
grave  face. 

"  How  are  they  getting  on  ?"  Val  asked. 

"  They  are  getting  on  fast  enough,"  the  doctor 
answered,  in  a  dissatisfied  tone.  "  They've  been  examin- 
ing me.  I  had  to  describe  that  last  interview  with  her," 
jerking  his  thumb  toward  the  ceiling,  "  and  prove  to  their 


106  FOUND    GUILTY. 

satisfaction  she  came  to  lier  death  by  strangling,  and  in 
no  other  way.     They  hfd  Natty  up  there,  too." 

"  Oh,  she  is  better,  then." 

"  Not  much !  but  she  had  very  little  to  tell,  and 
Laura  Blair  has  driven  her  off  again.  They  have  de- 
tained Mrs.  Marsh — she  does  not  know  for  what,  though 
— ^and  will  examine  her  presently." 

"  To  find  out  the  cause  of  Charley's  absence  from 
liome  that  ni^ht !  Do  yon  know,  doctor,  I  begin  to  think 
things  look  black  for  Charley." 

"  Ah !  you  might  say  so  V  said  Dr.  Leach,  with  a 
significant  nod,  "  if  you  knew  what  I  do." 

Val  looked  at  him. 

"  What  you  do  !     Do  yon  mean  or  pretend  to  say ^" 

"  There !  there  !  there  1  Don't  speak  so  loud.  I  may 
tell  you,  Blake — you're  a  friend  of  his  and  would  do 
nothing  against  him.     Read  that." 

He  handed  him  a  note.  Val  read  it  with  a  blank 
face.  It  was  the  note  sent  by  Cherrie  to  Charley,  which 
Ann  had  told  him  of,  and  a  verbatim  copy  of  that  given 
Cherrie  by  Captain  Cavendish. 

"  How  did  you  get  this  ?"  Val  asked,  with  a  still 
whiter  face. 

"  It  was  sent  by  that  gadfly,  Cherrie,  to  the  shop, 
the  evening  of  the  murder.  Her  sister  brought  it,  and. 
Marsh  being  out,  gave  it  to  the  boy.  Now,  what  do 
you  think  the  young  rascal  did  ?  Why,  sir,  broke  it  open 
the  minute  the  girl's  back  was  turned,  and  read  it.  As 
luck  would  have  it,  I  pounced  in  and  cauglit  him  in  the 
act.  You  ought  to  have  seen  his  face,  Blake !  I  took 
the  note  from  him  and  read  it  myself,  not  knowing  it 
was  for  Marsh,  and  I  have  it  ever  since.  I  meant  to  give 
it  to  him  next  day,  and  teU  him  what  I  have  told  you; 
but  next  day  came  the  news  of  the  murder,  and  underhand 
whispers  of  his  guilt.  Now,  Val,  what  do  you  tliink  of 
it?  Isn't  the  aSusion  to  Lady  Leroy's  money  plain 
enough  ?" 

"  That  bit  of  paper  might  hang  him,"  Val  emphat- 
ically said,  handing  it  back.  "  What  do  you  mean  to  do 
with  itV" 


FOUND     QUILTT.  IW 

"  There  is  only  one  tiling  I  can  do  with  it,  as  a  con- 
Bcientious  man — and  that  is,  liand  it  over  to  the  coroner. 
I  like  the  boy,  but  I  like  justice  more,  and  will  do  my 
duty.  If  we  only  had  that  Cherrie  here,  she  might 
throw  some  light  on  the  business." 

"  What  can  she  mean  by  that  allusion  to  state-rooms  ?" 
said  Val.  "  Can  they  have  meant  to  run  off  together  in 
the  steamer,  and  w:as  Greentown  only  a  ruse  ?  I  know 
Charley  has  been  spooney  about  her  this  long  time,  a,nd 
would  be  capable  of  marrying  her  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  Bhike,  do  you  know  1  have  been  thinking  she  is 
hiding  somewhere  not  far  off,  and  has  the  money.  The 
police  should  be  set  on  her  track  at  once." 

"They  will,  when  that  note  is  produced.  But, 
doctor,  you  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  that  Charley  is 
guilty." 

"How  can  I  help  it?  Isn't  the  evidence  strong 
enough  ?" 

"Circumstantial,  doctor,  circumstantiaL  It  seems 
hard  to  believe  Charley  Marsh  a  murderer." 

"  So  it  does,  but  Scripture  and  history,  ever  since  the 
times  of  liing  David,  are  full  of  parallel  cases.  Think  of 
the  proof — think  of  this  note,  and  tell  me  what  you  infer 
candidly  youi-self." 

"  The  note  is  a  staggerer,  but  still —  Oh,  hang  it !" 
cried  Mr.  Blake,  impatiently,  "I  won't  believe  him 
guilty  as  long  as  I  can  help  it.  Does  he  say  nothing  in 
his  own  defense  ?" 

"  Not  a  syllable,  and  the  coroner  and  jury  are  all  in 
his  favor,  too.  He  stands  there  like  a  sulky  lion,  and 
says  nothing.  They'll  bring  him  in  guilty  without  a 
doubt." 

"  Who  have  been  examined  ?" 

"All  who  saw  Lady  Leroy  that  day — Miss  Marsh, 
Midge,  myself,  La^vyer  Darcy,  and  Tom  Oaks,  who 
swore  roundly  when  asked  that  Marsh  knew  of  his  pay- 
ing the  money  that  day,  for  he  had  told  him  himself. 
He  also  swore  that  he  knew  Charley  to  be  over  head  and 
ears  in  debt — debts  of  honor,  he  called  them.  Debts  of 
dishonor,  I  should  say." 


198  FOUND    aUILTT. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  in  I  Can  we  speak  to  Charley,  I 
■wonder  ?" 

"  Of  course.  He  is  not  held  precisely  as  a  prisoner, 
as  yet.  They  have  Midge  up  again.  I  never  knew  her 
name  was  Priscilla  Short,  until  to-day." 

"  What  do  tliey  want  with  her  a  second  time  ?" 

"She  was  the  lirst  to  discover  the  murder.  Her 
evidence  goes  clear  against  Marsh,  though  she  gives  it 
with  the  greatest  reluctance.     Come,  I'll  go  in  with  you." 

The  two  gentlemen  went  in  together,  and  found  the 
assemblage  smiling  at  some  rebut  of  Midge's.  That  wit- 
ness, with  a  very  red  and  defiant  face,  was  glaring  at  the 
coroner,  who,  in  rather  a  subdued  tone,  told  her  that 
would  do,  and  proceeded  to  call  the  next  witness,  Eobert 
Isettleby. 

Robert  l^ettleby  took  his  place,  and  was  sworn,  in 
reply  to  the  questions  put  to  him,  he  informed  liis  licarcrs 
that  he  had  hpard  nothing  until  the  yells  of  Midge 
aroused  him  from  sleep,  and,  following  her  up-stairs,  he 
found  her  in  Miss  Marsh's  room. 

"Had  Miss  Marsh  retired'^"  the  coroner  wanted  to 
know. 

Mr.  Kettleby  was  not  sure.  If,  by  retiring,  the 
coroner  meant  going  to  bed,  no ;  but  if  he  meant  going 
asleep,  yes.  She  was  sitting  by  the  window,  dressed,  but 
asleep,  until  Midge  aroused  her  by  her  screams.  Then 
she  started  up,  ana  followed  them  into  the  room  of  Mrs. 
Leroy,  wliom  they  found  dead,  and  black  in  the  face,  as 
if  she  had  been  choked.  Midge  had  run  down  stairs,  and 
he  had  run  after  her,  and  they  saw  some  one  rimning 
under  the  trees,  when  they  got  out.  Midge  had  llowu 
out  and  coUared  him,  and  it  proved  to  be  Mr.  Charley 
Marsh. 

Here  the  coroner  struck  in. 

"  He  was  running,  you  say :  in  what  direction  ?" 

Mr.  Nettleby  couldn't  say  positively — ^was  inclined  to 
think  he  was  mnning  toward,  not  from  them.  Couldn't 
swear  either  way,  for  it  was  a  queer,  shadowy  kind  of  a 
night,  half  moonlight,  half  darkness.  They  had  all  three 
gone  back  to  the  house,  Mr.  Marsh  appearing  XQvy  much 


FOUND     GUILTY.  199 

shocked  at  hearing  of  the  murder ;  and  on  returning  to 
the  room  of  the  deceased,  had  found  Miss  Marsh  in  a 
fainting-iit.  They  brought  her  to  with  water,  and  then 
her  brother  had  taken  her  to  her  mother's  house  in  Speck- 
port,  in  a  gig.  He  and  Midge  liad  gone  to  his  father's 
cottage,  where  they  had  remained  all  night.  Further 
than  that  Mr.  Nettleby  knew  nothing,  except — and  here 
he  hesitated. 

"Except  what,  sir?"  the  coroner  sharply  inquired. 
"  Remember  you  are  upon  oath." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  i3ob,  "it  isn't  much,  except  that 
when  we  eame  back  to  the  room,  I  picked  this  up  close  to 
the  bed.  It  looked  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  man,  and  I  put 
it  in  my  pocket.     Here  it  is." 

He  produced  from  his  coat-pocket,  as  he  spoke,  a  glove. 
A  gentleman's  kid  glove,  pale-brown  in  color,  and  consid- 
erably soiled  with  wear.  Val  started  as  he  saw  it,  for 
those  were  the  kind  of  gloves  Charley  Marsh  always  wore 
— he  had  them  made  to  order  in  one  of  the  stores  of  the 
town.  The  coroner  examined  it  with  a  very  grave  face — 
there  were  two  letters  inside,  "  C.  M." 

"Do  you  know  to  whom  this  glove  belongs?"  the 
coroner  asked. 

"  I  know  I  found  it,"  said  Nettleby,  not  looking  at  it, 
and  speaking  sulkily,  "  that's  all  I  know  about  it." 

"  Does  any  one  you  know  wear  such  gloves  ?" 

"  Plenty  of  gentlemen  I've  seen  wear  brown  kid 
gloves." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  initials,  '  C.  M.,'  inside  this 
glove?" 

"  I  have." 

"  And — on  your  oath,  recollect — are  you  not  morally 
certain  you  know  its  owner  ?" 

Nettieby  was  silent. 

"Speak,  witness,"  the  coroner  cried;  "answer  the 
question  put  to  you.  Who  do  you  suspect  is  the  owner 
of  this  glove  ?" 

"  Mr.  Marsh !  Them  letters  stands  for  his  name,  and 
he  always  wears  them  kind  of  gloves." 


900  FOUND     GUILTY. 

"  Had  Mr.  Marsh  been  near  the  bed,  after  your  return 
to  the  room  together,  before  you  found  this  glove  ?" 

"  No ;  I  found  it  lying  close  by  the  bedside,  and  he 
had  never  been  nearer  than  the  middle  of  the  room,  where 
he  was  trying  to  fetch  his  sister  to." 

Robert  Nettleby  was  told  he  might  stand  down,  and 
Mr.  Marsh  was  called  upon  to  identify  his  property. 
Charley,  who  had  been  standing  at  one  of  the  windows 
listening,  in  gloomy  silence,  and  closely  watched  by  two 
policemen,  stepped  forward,  took  the  glove,  examined  it, 
handed  it  back,  and  coldly  owned  it  was  his. 

How  was  he  going  to  account  for  its  being  found  by 
the  bedside  of  the  murdered  woman  ? 

Mr.  Marsh  was  not  going  to  account  for  it  at  all — ^he 
knew  nothing  about  it.  He  always  had  two  or  three  such 
pairs  of  gloves  at  once,  and  had  never  missed  tliis.  Amid 
an  ominous  silence,  he  resumed  his  place  at  the  window, 
staling  out  at  the  broad  green  fields  and  waving  trees, 
bathed  in  the  golden  August  sunshine,  and  seeing  them 
no  more  than  if  he  had  been  stone-bhnd. 

Mi's.  Marsh  was  the  next  witness  called,  and  came  from 
an  adjoining  room,  dressed  in  black,  and  simpering  at  hud- 
ing  lierself  the  cynosure  of  so  many  eyes.  Mrs.  Mai-sh 
folded  one  blaek-kid-gloved  hand  over  the  other  after  be- 
ing sworn,  with  a  mild  sigh,  and  prepared  to  answer  the 
catechism  about  to  be  propounded.  The  coroner  began 
wide  of  the  mark,  and  asked  her  a  good  many  questions, 
that  seemed  to  have  little  bearing  on  the  matter  in  hand, 
all  of  which  the  lady  answered  very  minutely,  and  at 
length.  Presently,  in  a  somewhat  roundabout  fashion, 
he  inquired  if  her  son  had  been  at  home  on  the  night  of 
the  murder. 

"  No ;  he  not  been  at  home,  at  least  not  until  he  had 
come  driving  home  with  Natty,  both  of  them  as  pale  as 
ghosts,  and  no  wonder,  though  they  quite  made  her  scream 
to  look  at  them;  but  when  she  had  heard  the  news, 
she  had  such  a  turn,  it  was  a  mercy  she  hadn't  fainted 
herself,  and  she  hadn't  half  got  over  it  yet." 

Here  Mrs.  Marsh  took  a  sniff  at  a  smelling-bottle  she 
carried,  and  the  ammonia  being  strong,  brouglit  a  tear 


FOUND     GUILTY.  201 

into  each  eye,  which  she  wiped  away  with  a  great  show 
of  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  What  time  had  her  son  left  the  house  before  return- 
ing with  his  sister  ?" 

"  After  tea.  He  liad  been  home  to  tea,  which  in  itself 
was  60  unusual  a  circumstance,  that  she,  Mrs.  Marsh,  felt 
sure  something  was  going  to  happen.  She  had  had  a  feel- 
ing on  her  all  day,  and  Charley's  conduct  had  increased 
that  feeling  until  she  was  perfectly  convinced  something 
dreadful  was  going  to  happen." 

"  In  what  manner  had  her  son's  conduct  augmented 
her  presentiments  ?" 

"  Well,  she  did  not  know  exactly,  but  Charley  had  be- 
haved odd.  lie  had  come  over  and  talked  to  her  before 
going  out,  telling  her  he  had  been  bad,  but  meant  to  be 
good,  and  turn  over  a  new  leaf  for  the  future ;  and,  bid- 
ding her  take  his  part  if  ever  she  heard  him  run  down, 
which  she  meant  to  do,  for  Charley  was  a  good  boy  as 
ever  lived,  in  the  main,  only  he-  had  been  foolish  lately; 
but  mothers,  it  is  well  known,  can  forgive  anything,  and 
she  meant  to  do  it ;  and  if  he,  the  aoroner,  was  a  mother, 
she  would  do  it  herself." 

"  Was  her  son  in  the  habit  of  stopping  out  nights  ?" 

"  ^ot  until  lately  ;  that  is,  within  the  last  two  weeks, 
since  when  he  used  to  come  homo  in  a  dreadful  state  of 
drink,  worrying  her  nearly  to  death,  and  letting  all  her 
advice  go  in  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other." 

Mrs.  Marsh  was  shown  the  glove,  and  asked  if  she 
knew  it.  Yes,  of  course  she  did ;  it  was  one  of  Charley's ; 
he  always  wore  those  kind,  and  his  initials  were  inside. 
The  coroner  examined  her  further,  but  only  got  wordy 
repetitions  of  w'hat  she  had  already  said.  Everything  v^as 
telling  terribly  against  Charley,  who  stood,  like  a  dark 
ghost,  still  moodily  staring  out  of  the  window.  Yal  Blako 
crossed  over  and  laid  his  hand  heavily  on  his  shoulder  as 
Mi"8.  Marsh  left  the  room. 

"  Charley,  old  boy !  have  you  notliing  at  all  to  say  for 
yourself  ?" 

Charley  lifted  his  gloomy  eyes,  but  turned  away  agaiii 
in  sullen  silence. 
9* 


203  FOUND     QUILTT. 

"  Ycu  know  they  will  c.iarge  you  with  this  crime,  and 
you  know  you  are  not  guilty.  •  Can  you  not  prove  your- 
self innocent  ?" 

"  How  ?     Will  they  take  my  word  for  it  ?" 

"  Explain  why  you  were  found  in  the  grounds  at  that 
hour  of  the  night." 

"  They  have  already  asked  me  to  do  so,  and  I  have  al- 
ready declined." 

"But  tliis  is  folly — this  is  madness!  What  motive 
could  you  possibly  have  for  being  there  at  such  an  hour  ?" 

Charley  was  silent.  Val  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
with  a  kindly  look. 

"  Charley,  will  you  not  tell  me  ?" 

"JSTo." 

"  You  know  I  am  your  friend." 

"  You  will  not  be  so  long.  Those  fellows  over  there 
will  settle  the  matter  shortly  to  their  own  satisfaction,  and 
I  am  not  goin^  to  spoil  their  sport." 

"  Charley,"  said  Val,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  face, 
"  where  is  Cherrie  ?" 

Charley  Marsh's  face,  white  and  haggard  an  instant 
previously,  turned  scarlet,  and  from  swirlet  wl liter  than 
before.  But  he  lifted  his  eyes  fearlessly  to  Yal's  face, 
roused  to  eagerness  at  last. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  he  repeated.     "  Do  you  know  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  think  you  do." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"  That's  not  the  question  I    Where  is  she  V* 

"  I  don't  know." 

«  What !" 

"  1  don'^t  know.  I  tell  you  I  don't !  She  is  a  false- 
hearted, lying,  treacherous " 

His  face  was  white  with  fury.  His  name,  called  by 
the  coroner,  restored  him  to  himself.  Turning  round,  he 
saw  that  gentleman  holding  out  to  him  a  letter.  It  was 
Charley's  fatal  note,  given  to  him  by  Dr.  Leach,  while 
Val  and  Charley  had  been  speaking. 

"  Do  you  know  this,  Mr.  Mai*sh  ?"  the  coroner  asked. 

Charley  glanced  over  tlie  note,  the  coroner  still  hold- 
ing it.     It  was  all  written  on  the  lirst  page,  in  a  pothook- 


FOUND     GUILTT.  203 

and-lianger  fist;  ani  Charley  turned  crimson  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  as  he  finished  it  and  read  the  name  at  the 
bottom. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  this,  Mr.  Marsh?"  the 
coroner  repeated, 

"  No,"  Charley  coldly  and  briefly  said. 

"  You  recognize  the  writing  and  the  name  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  The  writer  of  this,  Cherrie  Nettlebj',  alludes  to  money 
which  she  says  will  do  you  and  her  more  good  than  it  ever 
did  Lady  Leroy.     To  what  money  does  she  refer  ?" 

Charley  thought  of  the  bank-note  he  had  taken  from 
her  through  sheer  necessity,  and  once  more  the  blood 
rushed  in  a  scarlet  tide  to  his  face,  ebbing  again,  and  leav- 
ing him  white  as  ashes. 

Coroner,  jury,  and  spectators  saw  his  changing  face, 
and  set  it  down  to  conscious  guilt. 

"To  what  money  does  she  refer?"  reiterated  the 
coroner. 

"  Sir,  I  decline  answering  that  question." 

"  Indeed  !  Are  you  awaj-e,  Mr.  Marsh,  such  a  refusal 
tells  very  much  against  you  ?" 

Charley  smiled  coldly,  contemptuously. 

"  I  am  quite  aware,  sir,  every  circumstance  tells  very 
much  against  me.  Nevertheless,  I  refuse  to  answer  that 
and  any  other  question  1  choose." 

"  The  boy  is  either  mad,"  thought  Val  Blake, "  or  else 
guilty.     In  either  case,  his  doom  is  sealed  !" 

The  coroner  now  explained  to  his  court  how  the  letter 
came  into  the  hands  of  Doctor  Leach,  and  read  it  aloud, 
handing  it  over  to  the  jury  for  their  inspection  wlieu  he 
had  finished.  The  allusion  to  his  taking  state-rooms  for 
them  both  puzzled  all  who  knew  of  the  girl's  departure 
for  Greentown ;  but  was  set  down  l)y  them,  as  it  had  been 
by  Yal,  as  a  blind  to  deceive  her  friends. 

Ann  Nettleby  was  next  called,  and,  in  a  state  of  great 
trepidation,  related  Charley's  call  at  the  cottage  and  in- 
quiry for  Cherrie.  Informed  the  coroner,  in  reply  to  his 
question,  that  Mr.  Mai-sh  was  "  after"  Cherrie,  a  constant 
visitor  at   their  house,  and  had  asked  Cherrie  not  long 


»04  FOUND     GUILTY. 

before  to  run  away  witli  him  to  the  States.  Had  not 
heard  from  her  sister  since  her  departure,  but  supposed 
she  was  up  in  Green  town. 

One  or  two  other  witnesses  were  called,  who  had  noth- 
ing to  relate  concerning  the  murder,  but  a  good  deal  about 
Mr.  Marsh's  late  dissipated  habits  and  gambling-debts. 
When  these  witnesses  were  gone,  Mi-.  Marsh  was  called 
upon,  and  requested,  if  he  had  anything  to  say  in  his  own 
behalf,  to  say  it. 

Mr.  Marsh  had  but  little  to  say,  and  said  that  little  with 
a  recklessness  that  quite  shocked  the  assemblage.  The 
secret  of  his  bitter  tone  and  fiercely-scornful  indifference 
they  had  no  clue  to,  and  they  set  it  down  to  the  despera- 
tion of  discovered  guilt.  He  informed  them,  in  that 
reckless  manner,  flinging  his  words  at  them  like  a  defiance, 
that  Ann  Kettleby's  testimony  was  correct,  that  he  had 
called  at  the  cottage  between  eight  and  nine  on  the  night 
of  the  murder,  and  on  leaving  her  had  gone  straight  to 
the  old  house,  and  remained  in  the  grounds  until  discov- 
ered ])y  Midge  and  Rob  l!^ettleby.  What  had  taken  him 
there,  what  his  motive  in  hngering,  was  what  Cherrie 
meant  in  her  note,  and  all  else  concerning  his  motives  and 
actions  he  refused  to  answer.  He  was  a  dnmkard,  he  was 
a  gambler,  he  was  in  debt — "  his  friends"  with  sneering 
emphasis,  "  have  given  his  character  with  perfect  correct- 
ness. But  for  all  that,  stmnge  as  it  might  seem,  incredible 
as  he  knew  they  would  think  it,  he  had  neither  robbed 
nor  murdered  his  sister's  benefactress.  Further  than  that 
he  had  nothing  to  say." 

He  returned  to  the  window  again,  flashing  fierce  de- 
fiance on  every  hand,  and  the  coroner  summed  up  the 
evidence.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  had  known  Charley 
Marsh  since  he  was  a  pretty  little  fair-haired,  frolicsome 
boy,  and  he  would  have  given  a  good  round  sum  in  hard 
cash  to  be  able  to  find  him  innocent.  But  he  could  not, 
and  justice  must  be  done.  He  recapitulated  hi?  irregular 
conduct  on  the  evening  of  the  murder,  as  related  by  his 
own  mother,  his  lingering  in  the  grounds  from  dark  until 
discovered  by  Priscilla  Short  and  Robert  Nettleby,  con- 
fessed by  himself;  his  glove  found  at  the  bedside,  as  if 


FOUND     GUILTY.  205 

dropped  in  Ms  haste  and  alarm ;  his  knowledge  of  tho 
large  sum  of  money  paid  the  deceased  that  afternoon  by 
Mr.  Oaks ;  his  knowledge,  also,  of  the  house,  as  proved  by 
his  entering  the  back-window,  found  open,  and  of  its 
lonely  and  improtected  state ;  and  lastly,  this  note  of  Cher- 
ne  Nettleby's,  with  its  distinct  allusion  to  the  money  of 
Mre.  Leroy,  to  beneht  him.  It  was  a  pity  this  girl  was 
not  here — but  she  soon  would  be  found ;  meantime,  the 
case  was  perfectly  clear  without  her.  It  was  evident  rob- 
bery, not  murder,  had  been  the  primary  instigation ;  but 
the  unfortunate  woman  awakening,  probably,  had  fright- 
ened him,  and  in  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  had 
endeavored  to  stifle  her  cries,  and  so — strangled  her. 
Perhaps,  too,  his  sister  being  her  heiress,  and  inheritrix 
of  all  she  possessed,  he  had  persuaded  himself,  with  the 
sophistry  of  guilt,  that  he  had  some  right  to  this  money, 
and  that  he  was  only  defrauding  his  own  sister,  after  all. 
His  debts  were  heavy  and  pressing,  no  way  of  paying 
them  open,  and  desperation  had  goaded  him  on.  He  (the 
coroner)  trusted  that  the  sad  case  of  this  young  man,  once 
80  promising,  until  he  had  fallen  into  evil  habits,  would  be 
a  warning  to  others,  and  an  inducement  not  to  stray  away 
from  the  path  of  rectitude  into  that  broad  road  whose  end 
was  disgrace  and  ruin.  The  money  stolen  had  not  been 
found,  but  there  had  been  ample  time  given  him  to  con- 
ceal it.  He  begged  the  jury  to  reflect  on  the  evidence 
they  had  heard,  consult  together,  and  return  a  verdict 
according  to  their  conscience. 

The  jury  retired  from  the  room,  and  in  the  awful 
silence  which  followed,  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 
Charles  Marsh,  in  this  supreme  crisis  of  his  life,  still  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window.  He  neither  moved  nor  spoke, 
nor  looked  at  any  one,  nor  betrayed  the  slightest  sign  of 
agitation  ;  but  his  teeth  were  rigidly  locked,  and  the  palm 
of  his  strong  right  liand  was  bleeding  where  he  had 
clenched  it,  in  that  silent  agony,  until  the  nails  had  sunk 
deep  into  the  flesh.  He  had  been  reckless  and  deliant, 
and  braved  it  out  with  a  high  hand ;  but  Charles  Marsh 
liad  had  the  misfortune  to  l)e  born  with  a  keenly  sensitive 
heart,  and  a  pride  that  had  lain  latent  under  ail  his  care* 


208  FOUND     GUILTY. 

less  life ;  and  what  he  felt  in  that  hour  of  disgrace  and 
degradation,  branded  as  a  thief  and  a  murderer  before  the 
friends  who  knew  him  all  his  life,  was  known  only  to 
Heaven  and  himself. 

The  jury  were  not  long  away.  Evidently,  his  ease  had 
been  settled  in  their  minds  before  they  had  left  their  seats. 
And  in  that  dread  silence  the  foreman,  Mr.  Blair,  with  a 
grave,  sad  face,  stood  up  to  announce  their  verdict.  It 
was  only  one  word — the  terrible  word,  "  Guilty." 

There  was  a  swaying  sound  among  the  crowd,  as  if 
they  had  drawn  breath  for  the  first  time.  That  dismal 
vord  fled  from  lip  to  lip  like  wildfire,  until  it  passed  from 
the  room  to  the  crowd  in  the  hall,  and  from  them  to  the 
swaying  mob  without.  It  was  quite  a  lively  scene,  in  fact, 
out  thers,  where  that  big  crowd  of  men  stood  broiling 
under  the  meridian  sun,  when  the  verdict  was  announced, 
and  the  inquiries  as  to  how  "young  Marsh"  behaved  and 
looked  were  many  and  eager.  The  question  was  not  very 
easily  answered.  Young  Marsh,  standing  by  that  sunny 
window,  was  so  screened  by  the  towering  figure  of  Mr. 
Yalentine  Blake,  that  the  gaping  and  exasperated  throng 
craned  their  throats  and  stood  on  tip-toe  for  nothing. 
They  would  see  him,  however,  when  he  came  out  to  enter 
the  cab,  already  in  waiting,  that  was  to  convey  him  in  the 
custody  of  the  constables  into  town,  and  it  was  worth 
while  waiting  even  for  that  fleeting  glimpse. 

Five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  minutes  passed.  The  ex- 
pectant crowd  were  getting  angry  and  impatient ;  it  waa 
shameful,  this  dallying.  But  two  or  three  policemen  are 
out  now  with  their  red  batons  and  brass  buttons  of  author- 
ity, clearing  a  way  for  the  gentlemen  who  are  coming 
out,  and  for  tlie  cab  which  is  to  draw  up  close  to  the  front 
door.  *  Still,  the  mob  press  forward,  the  coroner  and  jury 
are  departing;  and  now  the  prisoner's  coming.  But  a 
new  disappointment  is  in  store  for  them ;  for  when  ho 
comes,  he  has  his  hat  pulled  so  far  over  his  eyes,  and 
springs  in  so  quickly,  that  they  don't  even  get  that  fleeting 
glimpse  of  him  they  are  crushing  each  other  to  death  to 
obtain.  The  constables  follow ;  it  is  pleasant  even  to  see 
them  ;  the  blinds  ai-e  pulled  down ;  the  cab  drives  o£[  rup- 


THE    DAHRENING    8KT.  207 

idly,  and  the  crowd  go  home,  ravenous  for  then*  dinner. 
And  Charles  Marsh  is  on  his  way  to  Speckport  jail,  to 
await  his  trial  for  the  willful  murder  of  tfane  Leroy  1 


CHAPTEK  XYni. 

THE    DARKENING    SKY. 


HE  day  after  the  inquest,  the  funeral  took  place. 
As  tJie  clock  of  Speckj^ort  cathedral  chimed 
in  sonorous  sweetness  the  hour  of  ten,  all  that 
was  eartlily  of  Mrs.  Leroy  was  placed  in  the 
hearee,  and  the  gloomy  cortege  started.  A 
gi'eat  many  carriages  followed  the  mistress  of  Redraon  to 
her  last  long  home ;  and,  in  the  foremost,  two  ladies,  robed 
in  sable,  and  vailed  in  crape,  rode.  The  outward  mourning 
was  for  the  dead,  the  deeper  deuil  of  the  heart  for  the  liv- 
ing— for  him  who,  on  this  wretched  August  day,  was  a 
prisoner  in  Speckport  jail,  awaiting  his  trial  for  tiic  great- 
est crime  man  can  commit,  doomed  to  suffer,  perhajjs,  the 
greatest  penalty  man  can  inflict. 

Nobody  in  all  the  long  line  of  carriages  talked ;  they 
crouched  into  corners,  and  shivered,  and  were  silent,  and 
sulky,  and  cross,  and  uncomfortable,  and  gaped,  and 
wished  the  thing  was  well  over,  or  that  they  had  never 
come. 

They  got  their  wish  after  a  while.  The  last  sod  was 
beaten  down,  and  the  carriages  rattled  back  into  the  foggy 
town — all  but  three  or  four;  and  they  drove  back  to  the 
eerie  old  house,  never  so  lonely  and  desolate  as  now.  One 
ceremony  was  yet  to  be  gone  through — that  ceremony 
the  reading  of  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Mrs.  Leroy. 
Here,  where  it  had  been  written,  in  the  ghostly  reception- 
room,  where  the  inquest  had  taken  place,  and  where  the 
rats  and  black  beetles  had  it  all  their  ow,'i  way,  it  was  to 


208  TEE    DARKENING    SET. 

be  read.  It  was  this  that  brouglit  Mrs.  Marsh,  wlio  had 
been  ill  and  liysterieal  ever  since  she  had  heard  the  result 
of  the  inquest,  to  the  funeral  at  all.  To  her  it  was  a  great 
and  joyful  thing  this  wealth  that  after  to-day  was  to  be 
theirs,  and  not  even  in  her  grief  could  she  forego  the 
pleasure  of  being  present.  Heaven  knows,  it  was  noth- 
ing of  the  sort  brought  her  daughter — the  silent  agony 
she  had  endured  since  yesterday  can  never  be  told ;  but 
she  had  hope  yet.  She  had  hope  in  this  very  wealtli  that 
was  to  be  hers  to  help  him.  1  oung  as  she  was,  she  knew 
enough  of  the  power  of  money  to  be  aware  it  can  do  al- 
most anything  in  this  world,  and  smooth  the  road  to  the 
next ;  and  she  trusted  in  its  magic  power  to  free  her  im- 
prisoned brother.  They  all  went  into  the  silent  and  for- 
lorn house  together;  Mr.  Darcy,  who  was  to  read  the 
will,  and  whose  face  was  distressed  and  troubled  to  the 
last  degree ;  Mr.  Blair,  as  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family ; 
Mr.  McGregor,  Senior,  and  Dr.  Leach ;  Mi*s.  McGregor 
and  Mrs.  Blair  were  with  Mrs.  Mai"sh,  and  Miss  Mc- 
Gregor and  Miss  Blair  were  deeply  sympathetic  with  Miss 
Marsh — the  heiress ! — and  Mr.  Val  Blake,  ^^'ith  his  sister 
on  his  arm ;  and  Midge,  who  had  been  at  the^ signing  of 
the  will,  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  shutters  of  the  closed  rooms  had  all  been  opened, 
and  the  casements  raised,  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  day, 
and  the  pale  light  of  the  foggy  morning  poured  in.  Law- 
yer Darcy  took  his  seat  at  a  table,  and  laid  out  on  it  a 
legal-looking  document  tied  with  red  tape.  The  others 
seated  themselves  around  the  apartment;  and  ISTathalie 
Marsh,  in  her  deep  mourning-robes,  and  her  thick  black 
crape  vail  do^vn  over  her  face,  took  her  seat  beside  one  of 
the  open  windows,  and  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hand, 
as  if  it  ached. 

Long  afterward,  when  she  was  gone  from  them  for- 
ever, they  remembered  that  drooping  black  figure  and 
bowed  young  head,  with  one  or  two  bright  curls,  like  lost 
sunbeams,  shimmering  out  from  under  lier  crape  bonnet. 
Long  afterward,  they  thought  of  how  she  had  sat  that 
dull  and  miserable  day,  suffering  as  these  patient  womanly 
martyrs  only  suffer,  and  making  no  sign. 


TEE    DARKENma    SKY.  209 

Lawyer  Darcy  seemed  stranfj^ely  reluctant  to  commence 
his  task.  He  lingered  and  lingered,  his  face  pale  and 
agitated,  his  lips  twitching  nervously,  and  the  lingers  that 
untied  the  document  before  him,  trembling.  His  voice, 
too,  when  he  spoke,  was  not  quite  steady. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  lawyer,  in  that  unsteady  voice, 
"  that  tlie  reading  of  this  will  will  be  a  shock — a  disap- 
pointment !  I  know  it  must  astonish  all,  as  it  did  me, 
and  I  should  like  to  prepare  you  for  it,  before  it  ia 
read." 

There  was  a  surprised  and  alarmed  murmur,  but  no 
one  spoke. 

"  You  are  all  aware,"  the  lawyer  went  on,  keeping 
his  eyes  resolutely  from  that  drooping  figure  at  the  win- 
dow, "  that  when  Mi's.  Leroy  made  her  will  after  coming 
to  Speckport  she  bequeathed  all  she  possessed  to  her  ward, 
Miss  Marsh.  I  drew  up  the  will,  and  she  made  no  secret 
of  lier  intentions." 

There  was  another  painful  pause.     Yal  Blake  broke  it. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  impatiently,  "  we  all  know  Mrs. 
Leroy  left  Miss  Marsh  heiress  of  Redmon." 

"  But  you  do  not  know,"  said  Mr.  Darcy,  "  that  a  short 
time  ago — in  fact,  a  few  days  beforc  her  tragical  death, 
she  revoked  that  firet  will  and  made  a  new  one." 

"What?"  the  cry  was  from  Val  Blake,  but  no  one 
heeded  him  ;  every  eye  was  strained  upon  the  lawyer. 

"  Made  a  new  one,"  the  lawyer  repeated,  still  averting 
his  eyes  from  the  black  form  at  the  window ;  "  a  new  one, 
entirely  different ;  leaving,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Redmon 
away  from  Miss  Marsh — in  point  of  fact,  disinheriting 
her." 

There  were  two  little  feminine  shrieks  from  the  Misses 
Blair  and  McGregor,  a  hysterical  cry  from  Mrs.  M.-u'sh, 
but  the  bowed  figure  at  the  window  never  stirred.  In  the 
unnatural  stillness  of  her  attitude,  her  face  hidden  behind 
her  crape  mask,  there  was  something  more  fearful  than 
any  outbursts  of  wild  womanly  distress. 

"  The  new  will  was  made,  as  I  told  you,"  continued 
Mr.  Darcy,  "but  a  few  days  before  her  death;  made 
wldlst  famartiug  under  a  sense  of  anger,  and  what  she 


210  TEE    DABKENINQ    BET. 

\. 
called  ingratitude.  Miss  Marsh  had  offended  her,  dis- 
obeyed her  in  a  matter  on  which  she  had  set  her  heart, 
and  for  tliis  she  was  going  to  disinherit  her.  I  expostu- 
lated, entreated,  did  all  I  could,  but  in  vain.  She  was  ob- 
stinate, and  this  new  will  was  made,  which  I  now  hold  in 
my  hand." 

Mrs.  Marsh's  face  had  turned  as  white  as  that  of  a 
dead  woman,  and  great  beads  of  cold  sweat  stood  on  her 
forehead.  But  she  sat  rigidly  still,  listening,  and  feeling 
as  though  she  were  in  some  dreadful  dream. 

"  I  drew  up  the  will,"  pui-sued  Mr.  Darcy,  "  and  Midge 
yonder  and  old  Nettleby  signed  it.  1  fancied  when  her 
first  resentment  cooled,  she  would  see  the  injustice  of  her 
act,  and  retract  it.  I  was  right ;  the  day  preceding  the 
night  of  her  death,  hearing  she  was  ill,  I  called  to  see  her, 
and  she  told  me  to  come  the  next  morning,  and  a  third 
win  should  be  made,  leaving  all  to  Nathalie  as  at  first. 
Next  morning  she  was  dead." 

To  the  dark  form,  whose  drooping  face  was  pitifully 
hidden  by  the  black  vail,  did  any  memory  come  of  the 
words  spoken  to  her  by  the  dead  woman  that  fatal  night, 
and  which  had  then  been  so  mysterious : 

"  I'll  make  it  all  right.  Natty  I  I'll  make  it  all  right  1" 
Did  she  know  what  was  meant  now  ? 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Darcy,"  Yal  Blake 
cried,  astonished  and  indignant,  "  that  Nathalie  Mai-sh  is 
not  the  heiress  of  Redmon  ?" 

"  I  do !  this  will  disinherits  her !  It  is  a  crying  wrong, 
but  no  fault  of  mine." 

"  And  who,  then,  is  the  heir  ?"  asked  Mr.  McGregor. 

"  She  bequeaths  all  she  possesses,  unconditionally,  to 
her  brother,  Philip  Henderson,  or,  in  case  of  his  death,  to 
his  children.     I  will  read  the  will." 

Amid  that  profound  and  impressive  stillness,  the  law- 
yer read  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Jane  Leroy.  It 
was  concise  enough,  and  left  the  whole  of  her  property, 
real  and  personal,  without  conditions,  to  her  brother, 
Philip  Hendereon,  and  his  lieii*s,  with  the  exception  of 
live  pounds  to  Miss  Nathalie  Marsh,  to  buy  a  mourning- 
ring,  f 


THE    DARKEmNG    SKY.  211 

Mr.  Darcy  hesitated  over  this  last  cruel  passage,  and 
felt  iudined  to  leave  it  out ;  but  he  did  not,  and  tliere 
was  a  suppressed  murmur  of  indignation  from  every  lip 
on  hearing  it. 

Poor  Mrs.  Marsh  was  catching  her  breath  in  hysterical 
gasps,  and  being  fanned  and  sprinkled  with  cold  water, 
and  the  palms  of  her  hands  slapped  by  Miss  Jo  and  the 
two  married  ladies.  And  still  the  vailed  figure  at  the 
window  sat  rigidly  there,  uttering  no  cry,  shedding  no 
tears. 

There  are  griefs  too  deep  for  words,  too  intense  for 
tears,  when  we  can  only  sit  in  mute  and  stony  despair, 
while  the  world  reels  under  our  feet,  and  the  light  of  the 
sun  is  blackness.  To  Nathalie  Marsh,  the  loss  of  fortune 
was  the  loss  of  everything — brother,  lover,  home,  happi- 
ness— the  loss  of  all  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  so 
long,  for  which  she  had  endured  so  much.  And  now,  she 
sat  there,  like  a  figure  carved  in  ebony ;  and  only  for  the 
ghastly  pallor  of  her  face  in  the  indistinct  glimpses  of  it 
they  could  catch  through  the  vuil,  could  they  tell  that  she 
even  heard. 

It  was  Val  Blake  who  again  broke  the  silence  that 
followed  the  reading  of  the  will. 

"  I  protest  against  this  will !"  he  indignantly  cried. 
"  It  is  unjust  and  ungrateful !  You  shoula  never  have 
produced  it,  Mr.  Darcy.  You  should  have  i-ead  the  former 
will." 

"  You  are  jesting,  Mr.  Blake !  Wliile  regretting  as 
much  as  you  can  possibly  do  this  unfortunate  change,  my 
duty  is  sacred,  and  by  this  will  we  must  abide,  Mrs. 
Mai"sh  seems  very  ill ;  I  think  she  had  better  bo  conveyed 
home." 

No  one  ventured  to  speak  to  Nathahe,  her  unnatural 
manner  awed  them ;  but  when  her  mother  was  supported 
from  the  room,  and  she  arose  to  follow,  good  naturcd  Miss 
Jo  was  beginning  a  homily  on  resignation,  and  on  its  being 
all  for  the  best,  perhaps,  in  the  end.  Her  brother,  how- 
ever, cut  her  short  \\ath  very  little  ceremony,  and  handed 
Miss  Marsh  in  after  her  mother,  and  seating  himself  by 
the  coachman,  they  started  off  rapidly.    He  might  have 


21»  THE    DIRKENING    SET. 

spared  himself  the  trouble;  good  Miss  Jo  might  have 
preached  for  an  hour,  and  Nathalie  would  not  have  heard 
one  word  of  it.  She  sat  looking  straight  before  her,  see- 
ing nothing,  hearing  nothing,  conscious  of  notliing,  save 
only  that  dull  and  dark  despair  at  her  heart.  Midge,  who 
had  come  with  them  in  the  carriage,  waited  on  Mrs,  Mareh, 
and  cried  quietly  all  the  way,  bestowing  anything  but 
blessings  on  the  memory  of  her  late  mistress. 

Mr.  Blake  assisted  both  ladies  into  the  house  when 
they  reached  Cottage  Street.  Mrs.  Marsh,  who  was  very 
ill  and  in  a  state  of  hysterics,  he  carried  in  his  arms  and 
laid  on  the  sofa.  Nathalie  entered  the  parlor,  closed  the 
door,  and,  still  wearing  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  sat  down 
by  the  window  that  looked  out  on  the  blurred  and  misty 
street.  She  had  flung  back  her  vail,  and  in  her  white  and 
ghastly  face  and  dilated  violet  eyes  you  could  read  a 
waiting  look.  Nathalie  was  waiting  for  one,  who,  by 
some  secret  prescience,  she  knew  would  soon  come. 

Doctor  Leach  entered  the  cottage  soon  after  their  re- 
tm'n,  prescribed  for  Mrs.  Marsh,  and  departed  again. 
Had  he  been  able  to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased,  he  might 
have  prescribed  for  Nathalie,  too ;  but  that  not  coming 
within  his  pharmacopoeia,  he  left  without  seeing  her. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  for  whom  she  waited  came.  The 
dull  wet  day  was  ending  in  a  duller  and  wetter  evening, 
and  the  tramp,  tramp  of  the  long-roaring  waves  on  the 
shore  made  a  dull  bass  for  the  high,  shrill  soprano  shrieks 
of  the  wind.  The  lamps  were  flaring  through  the  foggy 
twilight  in  the  bleak  streets,  when  Captain  Cavendish,  in 
a  loose  overcoat,  and  bearing  an  umbrella,  wended  liis  way 
to  that  house  of  mourning.  He  had  not  been  two  hours 
in  Speckport,  l)ut  he  had  heard  all  that  had  transpired. 
Was  there  one  in  the  town,  from  the  aristocratic  denizens 
of  Golden  How  and  Park  Lane  to  the  miserable  dwellers 
in  filthy  back-alleys  and  noisome  water-side  streets,  that 
did  not  know,  and  were  not  discussing  these  unhappy 
events  with  equal  gusto?  The  robbery  and  murder  of 
Mrs.  Leroy,  the  inquest,  the  sentence  and  imprisonment 
of  Charley  Marsh,  the  will,  and  the  disinheriting  of 
Nathahe,  all  were  as  well  known  in  the  obscurest  corner 


THE    BABKEmNG    SKY.  218 

of  Speekport  as  in  that  unhappy  Lome  to  which  he  waa 
going. 

In  the  course  of  that  long  afternoon  Midge  had  only 
once  ventured  into  the-  parlor,  and  that  was  in  fear  and 
trembling,  to  ask  her  young  mistress  to  take  a  cup  of  tea 
and  sop^.e  toast  which  she  brought. 

Nathalie  had  tasted  nothing  since  the  day  before ;  and 

Eoor  Midge,  with  tears  in  her  fretful  eyes,  urged  it  upon 
er  now.  The  girl  looked  at  her  out  of  a  pair  of  hollow 
eyes,  unnaturally  large  and  bright,  in  a  vague  way,  as  if 
trying  to  comprehend  what  she  said  ;  and  when  she  did 
comprehend,  refusing.  Midge  ventured  to  urge  ;  and  then 
Nathalie  broke  out  of  her  rigid,  despairing  stillness,  into 
passionate  impatience. 

"  Take  it  away !"  -she  cried,  "  and  leave  me  alone  I 
Leave  me  alone,  I  tell  yon  !" 

Midge  could  do  nothing  but  obey.  As  she  quitted  the 
room  with  the  tray,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  front  door. 
She  set  down  the  tray  and  opened  it,  and  the  tall  form  of 
the  young  English  officer  confronted  her.  Midge  had  no 
especial  love  for  Captain  Cavendish,  as  we  know  ;  but  she 
was  aware  her  young  lady  had,  and  was,  for  the  iirst  time 
in  her  life,  glad  to  see  him.  It  was  good  of  him  to  come, 
she  thought,  knowing  what  had  happened ;  "and  perhaps 
his  presence  might  comfort  her  poor  Miss  Natty,  and  re- 
store her  to  herself. 

"  Yes,"  Midge  said,  in  answer  to  liis  inquiry ;  "  Miss 
Mai^sh  was  at  home,  and  would  see  him,  she  thought.  If 
he  would  wait  one  minute  she  would  ascertain." 

She  returned  to  the  parlor  to  ask.  But  Nathalie  had 
already  heard  his  voice,  and  was  sitting  up,  with  a  strained 
white  face,  and  her  poor  wasted  hands  pressed  hard  over 
her  heart.  She  only  made  an  assenting  motion  to  Midge's 
question,  should  she  show  him  in,  and  a  negative  one  when 
she  spoke  of  bringing  a  lamp.  Through  all  her  torpor  of 
utter  misery,  she  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  change  in  her- 
self ;  that  she  was  haggard  and  ghastly,  and  the  beauty 
which  had  won  him  iirst  to  her  side,  utterly  gone.  That 
gloomy  twilight  hour  was  best  belitting  the  scene  so  soon 
to  take  place;  for  lier  projjhetic  heart  told  her,  as  surely 


214  THE    DAEKENINQ    SET. 

as  if  she  had  itjad  it  in  the  Book  of  Fate,  that  this  meet- 
ing was  to  be  their  last. 

Midge  admitted  liim,  and  closing  the  door  behind  liim, 
retired  into  a  distant  corner  of  the  hall,  and  throwing  her 
apron  over  her  head,  cried  quietly,  as  she  had  done  all  day. 
She  would  have  given  a  good  deal  if  the  white  painted 
panels  of  the  parlor  door  had  been  clear  glass,  and  that  she 
could  have  seen  this  man  comforting  her  beloved  young 
lady.  Much  as  she  had  disliked  !iim,  she  could  have  knelt 
down  in  her  gratitude,  and  kissed  the  dust  olf  his  feet. 

Even  in  the  pale,  sickly  half-twilight  of  tlie  dark  eve- 
ning. Captain  Cavendish  could  see  the  haggard  cheeks,  the 
sunken  eyes,  and  the  death-like  livid  pallor  of  the  girl's 
face,  and  was  shocked  to  see  it.  He  had  expected  to  lind 
her  changed,  but  not  like  this ;  and  there  was  real  pity  for 
the  moment  in  his  eyes  as  he  bent  over  her  and  took  her 
hand.  He  started  to  iind  it  cold  as  ice,  and  it  Lay  in  his 
passive,  and  like  a  bit  of  marble. 

"  Nathalie,"  he  said,  "  my  darling !  I  am  sorry  ;  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  for  you.  You  have  suffered 
indeed  since  I  saw  you  last." 

She  did  not  speak.  She  had  not  looked  at  him  once. 
Her  dilated  eyes  were  lixed  on  the  blackening  night -sky. 

''  1  only  reached  Speckport  an  hour  ago,"  he  Avent  on, 
"  and  1  can  never  tell  yon  how  deeply  shocked  1  was  to 
hear  of  the  di-eadf  nl  events  that  have  taken  place  since  my 
departure.    Is  it  ail  trae?" 

"  Yes — all !"  she  said.  Her  voice  sounded  strange  and 
far-off,  even  to  herself,  and  she  was  aware  it  must  sound 
hollow  and  unnatural  to  him. 

"  All  is  true !  My  brother  is  in  prison,  accused  of  mur- 
der, and  I  am  a  beggar !" 

Her  hand  felt  so  icily  deathlike  in  his,  tliat  he  dropped 
it  with  a  shiver.  She  still  sat  looking  out  into  the  deep- 
ening gloom,  her  white,  set  face  gleaming  marble- white 
against  her  black  dress  and  the  darkening  room. 

Captain  Cavendish  rose  up  from  the  seat  he  had  taken, 
and  began  pacing  rapidly  up  and  down,  heartily  wisliing 
the  scene  was  over. 

"1  knosv,"  siud  the  hollow  voice,  so  unlike — so  unlike 


THE    DARKENrS'G    SKY.  215 

the  melodious  voice  of  Nathalie,  "that  all  between  na 
must  end  now.  Disgrace  and  poverty  must  be  ray  portion 
from  henceforth,  and  you  will  hardly  care  to  many  so 
fallen  and  degraded  a  creature  as  I  am.  From  all  that 
binds  you  to  me,  Captain  Cavendish,  I  free  you  now !" 

In  the  depths  of  her  heart,  unseen  in  the  darkness  of 
despair  even  by  herself,  did  any  feeble  ray  of  hope — that 
great  gift  of  a  merciful  God — still  linger  ?  If  so,  the  deep 
and  prolonged  silence  that  followed  her  words  must  hav^ 
extinguished  the  feeble  glimmer  forever.  When  Captain 
Cavendish  spoke,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he  did  so, 
there  was  a  quiver  of  shame  in  his  tones,  all  unusual  there. 
Very  few  ever  had  a  better  opinion  of  their  own  merits, 
or  were  less  inclined  to  judge  hardly  of  themselves,  than 
George  Percy  Cavendish,  but  she  made  him  despise  him- 
self now,  and  he  almost  hated  her  for  it. 

"  You  are  generous,  Miss  Marsh,"  he  said — cold  and 
cruel  words,  and  even  he  felt  them  so  to  be,  "and  I  tliank 
you  for  that  generosity.  Loss  of  fortune  would  be  nothing 
to-  me — that  is  to  say,  I  could  overlook  it — though  I  am 
not  rich  myself,  but  this  other  matter  is  dilferent.  As 
you  say,  I  could  hardly  marry  into  a  family  stained  with — 
unjnstly  let  us  hope — the  brand  of  murder.  1  shall  ever 
esteem  and  respect  you,  Miss  Marsh,  as  the  best  and  bravest 
of  women,  and  I  trust  that  you  will  yet  make  happy  some 
one  worthier  of  you  than  I  am.' ' 

Is  murder,  the  murder  of  the  body,  when  a  man  plunges 
a  knife  into  his  fellow-man's  breast,  and  leaves  him  stark 
and  dead,  the  greatest  of  all  earthly  crimes  ?  Earthly  tri- 
bunals consider  it  so,  and  iuliict  death  on  the  perpetrator. 
But  is  there  not  another  irnn*dcr — a  nmrder  of  the  heart — 
committed  every  day,  of  which  we  hear  nothing,  and  which 
man  has  never  made  a  law  to  punish.  There  are  wounds 
which  leave  little  outward  trace  ;  but  the  patient  bleeds 
inwardly,  yet  bleeds  to  death  for  all  that,  and  it  is  the 
same  ultimatum,  death,  by  a  different  means.  But  there  la 
a  higher  tribunal ;  and  perhaps  before  that,  the  sins  over- 
looked by  man  shall  be  judged  and  condemned. 

Captain  Cavendish  took  his  hat  and  turned  to  depart. 
He  felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 


218  THE    DARKENING    BET. 

He  wished  that  black  figure  would  not  sit  so  petrified  and 
Btone-like,  he  wished  that  white  face  gazing  out  into  the 
night  would  look  a  little  less  like  the  face  of  a  corpse.  He 
wished  she  would  flaine  up  in  some  wrathful  outburst  of 
womanly  fury  and  insulted  pride,  and  order  him  to  depart, 
and  never  show  her  his  false  face  again.  He  wished  she 
would  do  anything  but  sit  there,  in  that  frozen  rigidity,  as 
if  slowly  turning  to  stone. 

"  Nathalie !"  he  said,  venturing  to  take  her  icy  fingers 
again,  "  will  you  not  speak  one  word  to  me  before  I  go  ?" 

She  withdrew  her  lingers,  not  hastily  or  in  anger,  but 
never  looked  at  him. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  her  unnatural  voice  replied. 

"  Then  good-bye,  Nathalie  I" 

"Good-bye!" 

He  opened  and  closed  tlie  parlor  door,  opened  and 
closed  the  front  door,  and  was  gone.  He  looked  at  the 
window  of  that  dark  room  as  he  strode  by,  and  fancied  he 
saw  tlie  white  face  gleaming  on  him  menacingly  through 
tlie  gloom.  The  white  face  was  there,  but  not  menacing. 
AViiatever  she  might  feel  in  the  time  to  come,  when  the 
first  terrible  shock  of  all  this  wiis  over,  she  could  feel 
nothing  so  petty  as  resentment  now.  Her  anguish  was  too 
supreme  in  this  first  dreadful  hour.  The  world  to  her 
stood  still,  and  the  blackness  of  desolation  filled  the  earth. 
"All  for  love,  and  the  world  well  lost  I"  had  been  her 
motto.  It  was  for  his  sake  she  had  risked  everything,  and 
verily,  she  had  her  reward  I 


THE   FLIQRT.  117 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    PLIGHT. 

RS.  MAJOR  WHEATLY  was  a  very  fine 
lady,  and  lived  in  a  very  fine  house  two  or 
thi'ee  miles  out  of  town.  Having  secured  a 
traveling  companion  and  a  governess  for  her 
daughter,  in  the  person  of  Miss  Rose,  the  little 
Spcckport  school-mistress,  she  had  desired  that  young  per- 
son to  come  out  to  their  place  immediately,  and  assist  in 
the  packing  and  other  arrangements,  preparatory  to  start- 
ing. Miss  Rose  had  obeyed,  and  being  out  of  town  had 
lieard  nothing  of  the  inquest  and  the  verdict  until  that 
night,  when  the  major  drove  in,  after  dusk,  with  the  news. 
Mi's.  Major  Wheatly,  like  any  other  fine  lady,  was  greatly 
addicted  to  news,  and  received  a  severe  shock  in  her  nerv- 
ous system  by  the  manner  in  which  her  paid  companion 
received  the  intelligence.  They  were  all  sitting  at  tea 
when  the  major  blurted  out  the  story,  and  his  conviction 
that  "  the  young  scamp  would  be  hung,  and  serve  him 
.right,"  and  Miss  Rose  had  fallen  suddenly  back  in  her 
chair  in  a  violent  tremor  and  faintness.  All  the  next  day 
she  had  gone  about  so  pale  and  subdued  that  it  gave  Mrs. 
Wheatly  the  fidgets  to  look  at  her ;  but  whatever  she  felt, 
she  had  wisely  kept  to  herself,  and  made  her  moan  in- 
wardly, as  dependents  who  know  their  places  always  should. 
"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof ' ' — that  day 
brought  its  own  evil  tidings.  The  major  returning  at  his 
usual  hour  of  the  evening  from  town,  announced  the  as- 
tounding intelligence  that  Miss  Nathalie  Marsh  was  disin- 
herited, and  the  broad  lands  of  Redmon  given  to  another. 
Mrs.  Major  Wheatly  sipped  her  tea  and  ate  her  buttered 
toast,  and  was  deeply  sympathetic.  She  had  met  the 
pretty,  golden-haired,  violet-eyed  heiress  often  in  society, 
and  had  admired  and  liked  her,  as  most  people  did,  and 
10 


218  TEE    FLIGHT. 

was  as  sorry  for  her  as  was  consistent  with  the  dignity  of 
60  great  a  lady. 

"  Of  course  Captain  Cavendish  must  recede  now,"  she 
said :  "  he  paid  her  very  marked  attentions,  but  of  course 
he  will  not  marry  a  penniless  bride.  Were  they  engaged, 
I  wonder  ?" 

"  Cavendish  is  a  fortune-hunter,"  said  the  major. 
"  Miss  Mai^sh  is  a  very  nice  girl,  and  a  very  pretty  one, 
and  altogether  too  good  for  him.  No  fear  of  his  marrying 
her,  my  dear;  he  wouldn't  marry  the  Venus  Celestis  her- 
self, witliout  a  handsome  dowry." 

"Mrs.  Wheatly,"  Miss  Rose  said,  "I  must  go  into 
town  to-morrow  moniing,  to  see  my  friends  and  say  good- 
bye." 

She  was  so  pale  and  tremulous  saying  this,  that  tlie 
lady  hastened  to  assent,  nervously,  lest  she  should  make 
another  scene. 

"  I  am  going  in  about  nine  o'clock,"  the  major  said, 
"  and  will  drive  you.     Harris  ^vill  take  you  back." 

"  And  you  must  not  stay  long,  Miss  Hose,"  his  lady 
languidly  said ;  "  remember  we  start  at  half-past  two,  and 
there  is  so  nmch  to  be  doi?e." 

The  clock  on  the  sitting-room  mantel  of  that  silent 
house  on  Cottage  Street  was  pointing  to  half-past  nine, 
when  Betsy  Ann,  with  fuzzy  hair  and  sleepy  face,  hastened 
to  answer  a  knock  at  the  froni  door.  She  stared  sleepily 
at  her  visitor,  who  came  hurriedly  in. 

"  Is  she  here,  Betsy  Ann  ? — Miss  Marsh  ?" 

"  Yes'm,"  Betsy  Ann  said,  "  she's  up  in  your  room, 
and  Miss  Laura  Blair  and  Midge,  they've  been  and  sot  up 
with  her  all  night,  and  me  and  Miss  Jo  Blake  we've  been 
sitting  up  with  Mrs.  Marsh.  Midge,  she's  gone  to  bed 
now,  and  you'd  better  go  up-stairs." 

Miss  Kose  ascended  the  stairs,  and  tapped  at  the  door 
that  had  been  her  own.  •  It  was  opened  by  Laum  Blair, 
looking  pale  and  fagged. 

"  Is  it  you,  Miss  Kose  ?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  kiss- 
ing her.  "  I  was  afraid  you  were  not  coming  to  say  good- 
bye." 


TEE    FLIGHT.  219 

"I  could  not  come  sooner,  and  can  stay  only  an  hour 
now.     How  is  she  ?" 

"  There  is  no  change.  She  has  lain  all  night  as  she  is 
lying  now." 

Miss  Rose  looked  at  the  bed,  tears  slowly  swelling  np 
and  filling  her  soft  brown  eyes.  Nathalie  lay  amosig  the 
white  pillows,  her  amber  tresses  trailing  and  falling 
loose  all  about,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  head,  her  hag- 
gard face  turned  to  the  window  overlooking  the  bay,  her 
wide-open  blue  eyes  staring  blankly  at  the  dim  gray  sea 
melting  away  into  the  low  gray  sky. 

"She  lies  like  that,"  Laura  softly  said,  "  all  the  time. 
We  sat  up  with  her  all  night,  but  she  never  slept,  slio 
hardly  moved  ;  whenever  we  went  near  the  bed,  we  found 
her  eyes  wide  open  and  vacant,  as  they  are  now.  If  she 
could  only  talk  or  cry,  she  would  be  better,  bnt  it  makes 
one's  heart  ache  to  look  at  her." 

"  Does  she  not  talk  ?" 

"  She  will  answer  you  if  you  speak  to  her,  bnt  that  is 
all.  She  is  quite  conscious,  but  she  seems  to  be  in  a  sort 
of  torpor.  I  will  leave  you  with  her,  and  lie  down  for  half 
an  hour.  She  was  very  fond  of  you,  and  perhaps  you  can 
do  more  with  her  than  I  could." 

Laura  departed  ;  and  Miss  Rose,  going  over  to  the  bed, 
stooped  down  and  kissed  the  cold,  white  face,  leaving  two 
bright  tears  upon  it. 

"  Nathalie,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  me  ?" 

LLer  large,  melancholy  eyes  turned  upon  her  sweet, 
tender  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  that  voice  so  unlike  her  own,  that 
it  startled  lier  hearer.  She  seemed  so  unlike  herself  every 
way,  that  Miss  Rose's  tears  rained  down  far  faster  than 
they  would  have  done  at  any  outbreak  of  grief. 

"  You  are  ill,  my  darling,"  Miss  Rose  faltered  through 
her  tears.  "I  wish  I  could  stay  and  nurse  you  back  to 
health,  but  I  am  going  away  to-day — agoing,  perhaps,  never 
to  come  back." 

"  Going  away  ?     Oh,  yes.     I  remember !" 

She  turned  wearily  on  the  pilIo^\,  still  gazing  out  over 
the  wide  sea,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 


220  THE    FLIGHT. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  dear,  dear  Nathalie !  Yery, 
very  sorry  for  you!  It  seems  to  me,  sometimes,  there  is 
notning  m  all  this  world  but  suffering,  and  sorrow,  and 
death." 

"  Death  !"  Nathalie  ephoed,  catching  with  sudden  and 
startling  vehemence  at  the  word.  "  Miss  Eose,  are  you 
afraid  to  die  ?" 

The  question  was  so  sudden  and  so  strange,  that  Miss 
Rase  could  not  for  a  moment  answer.  A  wild  gleam  of 
light  had  leaped  into  the  sick  girl's  eyes,  and  in*adiated 
her  face  so  unnaturally,  that  it  struck  her  companion  with 
terror. 

"  Afraid  to  die  ?"  she  faltered.     "  To  die,  Nathalie  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Nathalie  repeated,  that  abrupt  energy  yet  in 
her  voice ;  "  you  are  good  and  charitable,  better  than  any 
other  girl  I  know,  and  you  ought  not  to  be  afraid  to  die. 
Tell  me,  are  you  ?" 

She  laid  hold  of  Miss  Rose's  wrist,  and  looked  wildly 
into  her  frightened  face.  The  girl  tried  to  still  her 
beating  heart  and  answer. 

"I  am  not  good,  Nathalie.  I  am  an  erring  and  sinful 
creature;  but,  trusting  in  the  gj-eat  mercy  of  God,  I 
think  I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  die  when  it  shall  please  him 
to  call  me.  We  must  rely  on  his  mercy,  Nathalie,  on  that 
infinite  compassion  for  our  misery  that  made  him  die 
for  us.  If  we  thought  of  his  justice,  we  might  all  de- 
spair." 

Nathalie  turned  away,  and  looked  out  again  over  the 
dark,  tossing  bay.  The  sweet  voice  of  Miss  Rose  broke 
the  stillness. 

"To  the  just,  Nathalie,  there  is  no  sucli  word  as 
death  !  To  quit  this  world,  to  them,  is  only  passing  from 
earth  to  Heaven  in  the  arms  of  angels.  Why  should  we 
ever  grow  to  love  this  world,  when  day  after  day  it  is  only 
passing  from  one  new  trouble  and  sorrow  to  another  ?" 

"  Sorrow  !"  Nathalie  repeated,  in  a  voice  sadder  than 
any  teai-s.  "  Yes,  sorrow,  sorrow,  soitow  !  There  is 
nothiuff  left  now  but  that." 


"  ifeuven  is  left,  my  darling,"  Miss  Rose   whispered, 
ler  fair  face  radiant.     "  Oh,  look  up,  Nathalie  !     When 


THE    FLIOET.  321 

all  the  world  deserts  us,  there  is  One  left  who  will  never 
turn  away  when  we  cry  out  to  him.  We  may  turn  our 
backs  upon  him  and  forget  him  in  the  hour  of  our  hap 
piness  and  prosperity,  but  when  the  world  darkens  around 
us,  and  all  earthly  love  fails,  he  will  never  leave  us  or 
forsake  us,  but  will  lead  us  lovingly  back  to  a  better  and 
purer  bliss.  Remember,  Nathalie,  the  way  to  heaven  is 
the  way  of  the  Cross.  It  is  a  hard  and  thorny  one,  per- 
haps: ;  but  think  of  the  divine  feet  that  have  trodden  it 
before  us." 

'*  Stop,  stop,  stop !"  Kathalic  impatiently  cried  out, 
"  why  do  you  talk  to  me  like  this !  I  am  not  good — I 
am  only  miserable  and  despairing,  and  I  want  to  die,  only 
I  am  afraid !" 

She  moved  away  her  face ;  but  Miss  Rose,  bending 
over  her  still,  kissed  once  more  the  averted  face. 

"  There  Avas  a  time,  Nathalie,"  she  said  softly,  "  when 
I  was  almost  as  miserable  as  you  are  now,  when,  God  for- 
give me,  I  prayed  in  my  passionate  and  wicked  rebellion 
to  die  too.  There,  was  a  time,  Nathalie,  when  I  was  rich 
and  flattered,  and  beloved  and  happy — as  happy  as  we 
can  ever  be  with  the  blind  happiness  of  a  lotus-eater  when 
we  never  think  or  thank  the  good  God  from  whom  that 
happiness  comes.  I  thouglit  myself  an  heiress  as  you  did, 
Nathalie ;  my  father  was  looked  upon  as  a  rich  and  honor- 
able man,  and  his  only  daughter  the  most  enviable  girl  in 
all  the  city  of  Montreal.  It  was  balls  and  parties,  and  the 
theater  and  the  opera,  every  night ;  and  riding  and  driv- 
ing, and  dressing  and  shopping  all  day  long.  I  had  my 
carriage  to  ride  in,  a  fine  house  to  live  in,  servants  to  wait 
on  me,  and  rich  dresses  and  jewels  to  wear  ;  and  I  thought 
life  was  one  long  holidav,  made  for  dancing  and  music, 
and  sunshine  and  joy.  I  had  a  lover,  too,  whom  I  thought 
loved  me,  and  to  whom  1  had  given  my  whole  heart,  and 
we  -were  on  the  verge  of  being  married.  Are  you  b'sten- 
ing  to  me,  Nathalie  ^" 

"Yes,"  Nathalie  said.  She  had  beenhstening  intently, 
forgetting  for  the  lirst  time  her  own  sorrow*,  to  hearken 
to  the  story,  so  like  her  own. 

"  Well,  Nathalie,  in  one  day,  almost  as  you  have  done, 


223  THE    FLIGHT. 

I  lost  all — fatlier,  lover,  fortune,  honor.  My  father  went 
out  from  breakfast,  hale  and  well,  and  was  carried  home 
two  hours  afterward,  struck  dead.  Congestion  of  the 
brain  they  said  it  was.  I  was  so  frantic  at  fii-st,  I  could 
realize  nothing  but  his  death,  but  I  was  soon  sternly  com- 
pelled to  listen  to  other  bitter  facts.  Instead  of  being  an 
Iieiress,  I  was  a  beggar.  I  was  far  poorer  than  you,  for  I 
was  motherless  and  without  a  home  to  shelter  me.  The 
creditors  seized  everything — house,  furniture,  carriages, 
horses,  plate,  picture? — and  turned  me,  in  point  of  fact, 
into  the  street.  I  had  been  educated .  in  a  convent,  and 
ihe  good  nuns  gave  me  a  home ;  but  for  tliat,  I  might 
have  gone  to  the  almshouse,  for  the  friends  of  prosperity 
are  but  frail  reeds  to  lean  upon  in  adversity.  He  whom 
I  was  to  have  wedded,  Nathalie,  cast  me  off;  he  could 
never  disgrace  his  English  friends  by  bringing  to  tliem  as 
his  wife  me  daughter  of  a  wretched  defaulter.  Dearest 
Nathalie,  I  need  not  tell  you  what  I  suffered — you  are 
feeling  the  the  same  anguish  now — and  I  was  rebellious  and 
despairing,  and  wished  impiously  for  nothing  but  death. 
The  nuns,  with  the  sweetness  and  patience  of  angels,  as 
they  are,  used  to  sit  by  me  for  hours,  telling  me  that 
blessed  are  they  who  mourn  and  are  chastened ;  but  I 
could  not  listen.  Oh  !  it  was  a  miserable,  miserable  time ! 
and  there  seemed  no  light  for  me  either  in  earth  or  heaven. 
If  I  had  been  '  cursed  with  the  curse  of  an  accomplished 
evil  pra^'er,'  and  died  then  in  my  wicked  despair,  I  shud- 
der to  think  of  what  would  have  been  my  fate.  But  that 
merciful  and  loving  Father  had  pity  on  me  in  spite  of 
myself,  and  it  is  all  over  now,  and  I  am  happy.  Yes, 
Nathalie,  happy,  with  a  far  better  and  more  rational  hap- 
piness than  I  ever  felt  in  the  most  joyous  days  of  my 
prosperity ;  and  I  have  learned  to  thank  God  daily,  now, 
for  what  I  then  thought  the  greatest  misery  that  could  ever 
befall  me.  I  wished  to  take  the  vail ;  but  the  nuns  knew 
the  wish  proceeded  from  no  real  vocation,  but  from  that 
weary  heart-sickness  that  made  me  so  disgusted  with  the 
world,  and  would  not  consent,  at  least  not  then.  I  was  to 
go  out  into  the  world  again,  and  mingle  in  its  ceaseless 
strife  once  more ;  and  if  at  the  end  oi  a  yeai*  the  desire 


THE    FLIOnr.  228 

was  as  strong  as  ever,  I  was  to  go  back  to  that  peaceful 
haven,  like  the  dove  to  the  ark,  and  be  sheltered  from  the 
storms  of  life  forever.  So  I  came  here,  Nathalie  ;  and  I 
am  happ3',  as  I  say — happy,  as  with  Heaven's  help  you 
will  one  day  be.  I  labor  for  a  sacred  cause,  and  until  that 
is  accomplished,  I  shall  enter  no  convent — it  is  to  pay  my 
father's  debts.  They  are  not  so  very  large  now  ;  and  in 
three  or  four  years,  if  life  and  health  be  granted  me,  I 
hope  to  accomplish  my  task. 

"'  And  now,  Nathalie,  you  have  heard  my  story ;  it  is 
not  a  very  romantic  one,  but  in  many  ways  it  is  similar 
to  your  own.  This  fever  of  wretchedness  will  pass,  as 
mine  has  done,  if  you  only  pray.  All  the  secret  lies 
there,  pray ;  and  he  who  has  said  '  Seek  and  ye  shall 
find,'  will  not  refuse  you  peace." 

Her  face  was  like  the  face  of  an  angel.  Nathalie 
looked  into  the  inspired  eyes,  and  felt  how  sinful  and  lost 
she  was  beside  this  heroic  girl — this  simple,  womanly 
martyr,  kissing  meekly  the  rod  which  stnick  her — this 
patient,  humble  soul,  rebelling  not,  but  thanking  God 
alike  for  the  joy  and  sufiering  it  pleased  him  to  send. 
She  felt,  through  all  the  dull  torpor  of  suffering,  how  un- 
worthy she  was  beside  her;  but  she  could  not,  in  that 
tii-st  bitter  hour,  imitate  her.  She  could  not ;  she  only 
turned  away  again  in  gloomy  silence. 

"  Yow  will  think  of  all  this,  dearest  Nathalie,"  the 
soft,  tender  voice  went  on ;  "  for  all  this  pain,  like  every 
other  eaithly  pain,  must  pass  away.  The  great  lesson  of 
life  is  endurance ;  and  all,  from  the  king  to  the  beggar, 
must  learn  it." 

She  rose,  as  she  spoke,  to  go,  for  more  than  an  hour 
had  passed,  and  kissed  the  cold  and  averted  face  again. 

"  1  must  leave  you,  Nathalie,"  she  said,  her  tears  fall- 
ing on  that  colorless  face.  "  Good-bye,  and  God  bless 
and  comfort  you." 

"  Good-bye,"  was  the  only  response  ;  and  Miss  Rose 
left  the  room.     Laura  iilair  met  her  in  the  lower  hall, 

"  Are  you  going  '^"  she  asked ;  "  the  gig  is  waiting  for 
you." 


234  THE    FLIGHT. 

*•  Yes  ;  but  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  Mrs.  Marsh,  to 
say  good-bje." 

"  She  is  asleep,  and  so  is  Miss  Blake.  I  will  say  it  to 
both  of  them  for  you.  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going, 
Miss  Rose.     Do  you  think  you  will  ever  come  back  i" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  hope  so !  If  I  send  you  my  address,  Miss 
Blair,  will  you  write  and  tell  me  how — ^howall  my  friends 
get  on  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  pleasure." 

Betsy  Ann  came  out  to  bid  farewell,  and  Laura  kissed 
her,  and  watched  her  as  she  entered  her  gig  and  was 
driven  aAvay.  Miss  Rose  had  no  time  to  bid  good-bye  to 
any  one  else  ;  but  when  she  reached  the  station  early  in 
the  afternoon,  in  the  carriage,  with  Major  and  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Wheatly,  she  found  all  her  pupils  assembled,  in 
Sunday  attire,  waiting  to  iij,Y  farewell.  Mrs.  Wheatly 
shrugged  Iier  shouldei"s  at  the  scene,  and  stared  through 
her  eye-glass,  and  was  relieved  when  they  were  all  seated 
in  the  car  and  the  scene  was  over.  As  they  took  their 
place,  a  gentleman  on  the  platform  leaned  his  elbow  on 
the  window,  and  lifted  his  hat  in  salutation  to  the  ladies. 

"  Hallo,  Blake !"  said  the  major,  nodding  familiarly, 
"  come  to  see  us  oflf  ?" 

"  i!^o,"  said  Val ;  "  I've  come  to  see  myself  off.  I'm 
going  to  take  a  couple  of  holidays  and  look  at  the  coun- 
try. Keep  a  place  for  me.  Miss  Rose ;  I  want  to  talk  to 
you.     I'll  be  in  in  a  brace  of  shakes." 

It  is  probable  a  brace  of  shakes  meant  fifteen  minutes, 
for  at  the  expiration  of  that  period  of  time,  and  just  as 
the  train  was  in  motion,  Mr.  Blake  lounged  in,  laden 
with  oranges,  peaches,  and  newspapers,  which  he  distrib- 
uted promiscuously,  ind  then  took  a  seat  beside  Misa 
Rose.  It  was  pleasant  to  have  Val  for  a  traveling  com- 
panion, for  he  knew  every  inch  of  the  country,  and  was 
so  full  of  stories  and  anecdotes  as  to  be  perfectly  fascinat- 
ing. He  talked  of  the  murder,  asserted  his  belief  in 
Charley's  innocence,  in  spite  of  any  amount  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  and  his  nrm  conviction  that  the  mystery 
would  be  speedily  cleared  up;  his  present  journey,  he 
hinted,  being  taken  to  bring  alx>ut  that  desirable  result. 


THE    FLIOHT.  226 

The  fact  was,  Mr.  Blake  had  of  his  own  choice  turned 
a'nateur  detective,  and  was  on  the  track  of  Miss  Cherrie 
Nettleby,  and  positively  resolved  never  to  stop  until  he 
had  hunted  that  young  lady  down.  A  telegram  had  been 
dispatched  to  Greentown  the  day  before,  and  the  answe^ 
Val  had  expected  returned  ;  Cherrie  had  never  been  near 
her  relations  in  Greentown  at  all.  The  reply  threw  the 
family  at  the  cottage  into  consternation,  but  Val  reassured 
them  by  expressing  his  resolution  to  tind  her,  if  she  was 
above  ground.  From  liis  inquiries  at  the  station,  he  h^ 
found  out  from  the  clerk,  who  knew  her  (who  did  not 
know  Cherrie  'i)  that  she  had  taken  a  through  ticket  to 
the  terminus,  thirty  miles  beyond  Greentown.  The  con- 
ductor remembered  very  well  the  pretty  girl  with  the 
dark  eyes  and  curls,  and  rosy  cheeks  ;  had  found  her  doz- 
ing every  time  through  the  night  he  had  passed  in  that 

car ;  remembered  her  ticket  was  for  S ,  the  terminas, 

but  was  positive  she  had  got  out  before  they  reached  the 
final  station.  Where  or  when  she  had  left,  he  could  not 
say ;  it  was  after  night,  and  passengers  were  getting  out 
and  coming  in  at  every  station,  and  she  could  easily  de- 
part among  them  unnoticed.  He  did  not  know  whether 
she  had  gone  as  far  as  Greentown ;  but  he  did  not  remem- 
ber seeing  her  after  they  passed  that  place.  Yal  got  out 
at  nearly  every  station  where  they  made  any  stop,  and 
inquired  for  the  pretty  girl  with  the  dark  eyes  and  curls, 
but  without  success.  At  Greentown,  ho  bade  Miss  liose 
farewell ;  told  her  to  take  care  of  hei-self  and  not  be  sea- 
sick, and  not  to  go  and  marry  an  Englishman  before  she 
returned  to  them  ;  and,  carpet-bag  in  hand,  and  the  ad- 
dress of  Cousin  Ellen  in  his  pocket,  strolled  along 
through  the  gray  twilight  to  pui-sue  his  uiquiries.  He 
found  the  farmhouse  easily  enough,  but  not  Cherrie.  She 
had  never  been  seen  there,  and  no  one  who  had  been 
at  the  station  that  night  had  seen  any  young  lady 
whatever  alight. 

Val  remained  in  Greentown  that  night,  and  went  on 
pui-suing  his  inquiries  next  day,  but  with  the  like  result. 

He  went  on  to  8 ;  it  was  just  possible  she  had  gono 

on  there,  and  taken  the  steamer  for  Quel>ec.    He  uiquii-ed 
10* 


228  TEE    FLIGHT. 

at  all  the  hotels,  but  no  one  answering  to  her  description 
had  stopped  at  any  of  them,  and  her  name  was  not  on  the 
list  of  passengers  by  the  last  steamer. 

Mr.  Blake  spent  three  days  in  the  search,  and  was  then 
compelled  by  business  to  return  t9  town.  Short  as  had 
been  his  absence,  Speckport  had  received  a  new  shock — 
no  less  than  the  escape  of  the  prisoner  from  jail.  Charley 
Marsh  had  broken  prison  and  tied  !  How,  could  not  very 
clearly  be  ascertained,  though  the  bars  had  been  wrenched 
fn»m  his  window  and  the  casement  found  wide  open,  his 
quilts  torn  into  strips,  and  dangling  from  it.  But  the 
window  was  liigh,  and  there  was  a  wall  to  be  got  over 
afterward,  and  how  he  had  accomplished  that  last  feat, 
puzzled  Speckport.  He  had  accomplished  it,  however, 
and  was  flown  ;  and  the  police  were  after  him,  scouring 
the  woods.  Rewards  were  offered  for  his  capture.  Mr. 
Blake  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  whistled,  when  ho 
heard  it.  The  recollection  of  a  certain  fact,  not  known  to 
all  Speckport  as  it  was  to  him,  rushed  upon  his  memory. 
In  the  days  gone  by,  when  the  late  Mr.  Marsh  had  been  a 
wealthy  man,  and  the  jailer  cf  the  prison  (not  jailer  then) 
sued  for  a  debt  ho  could  not  pay,  Mi*.  Marsh  had  come  to 
his  relief,  paid  tlie  debt,  and  freed  him.  It  was  hai-dly 
probable  tiio  man  had  forgotten  this  obligation,  and  the 
bread  cast  then  upon  the  waters  had  returned  after  many 
days.  But  the  jailer  was  not  suspected,  and  he  and  Val 
kept  their  own  counsel. 

"  I  liope  he'll  get  clear  off,''  thought  Val ;  "  for  if 
ever  he's  caught  now,  unless  the  real  criminal  turns  up, 
there  will  be  nothing  to  save  him.  This  flight  of  his  is 
enough  to  hang  him,  in  itself." 


"  ONE    MORE     unfortunate:''  227 

CHAPTEK    XX. 

*^  ONE  MORE  UNFORTUNATE." 

|Hp«Miifj|||HE  first  person  to  tell  Yal  Blake  of  Charley's 
ijgBM^'  flig^it  "^^  Captain  Cavendish,  lie  found 
IjSw^i  that  officer  killing  time  bj  lounging  on  the 
|ff^i'^g!^;i  platform,  and  staring  at  the  passengers,  as  he 
alighted.  Speckport,  from  time  immemorial, 
had  had  a  great  fancy  for  crowding  steamboat  wharves 
and  railway-platforms,  to  look  at  new  arrivals ;  and 
strangers  in  the  place  fell  into  the  habits  of  the  natives, 
nnconsciously. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  the  captain,  swinging  his  cane 
•irily  about,  and  linking  his  arm  in  Val's ;  "  I  hope  he'll 
dodge  them,  and  escape  Jack  Ketch.  I  never  like  to  see 
any  one  I've  been  on  friendly  terms  with  once,  coming  to 
that." 

"Are  your  friends  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  it?"  Mr. 
Blake  asked,  innocently. 

"  Bah  !  ilow  did  you  enjoy  your  trip  up  the  country  ?" 

"  As  well  as  I  expected." 

"  And  did  you  find  Cherrie  ?" 

"What?" 

"  Did  you  find  Cherrie  ?"  serenely  repeated  Captain 
Cavendish. 

"  No,"  said  Val.     "  Do  you  know  where  she  is !" 

The  question  might  have  disconcerted  any  other  man, 
but  it  only  made  the  young  officer  stare. 

"  I !     My  dear  fellow,     1  don't  understand  you !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Blukc.  "  I  think  you  are 
about  as  apt  to  know  the  hiding-place  of  little* Cherrie  09 
any  other  man  in  this  province.  That  she  is  in  hiding  I 
am  positive ;  and  I'll  ferret  her  out  yet,  as  sure  as  my 
name's  Blake." 

There  was  a  certain  determination  in  Mr.  Blake's  voice 


228  ''ONE    MORE     UNFORTUNATE.'' 

tliat  the  captain  by  no  means  liked,  but  he  only  langhed 
indifferently. 

"  Success  to  you !  IN"©  one  will  be  more  rei'oiced  to 
see  the  little  dear  back  in  Speckport  than  I !  T^he  place 
is  a  desert  without  her ;  but  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor, 
»Blake,  slie  might  be  in  the  moon  for  all  I  know  to  the 
'contrary." 

And  in  saying  this.  Captain  Cavendish  spoke  the 
truth,  for  Cherrie  had  not  yet  written. 

The  notion  had  been  vaguely  floating  through  Yal's 
mind,  ever  since  the  rob1)ery  and  murder  and  Cherrie's 
flight,  that  the  English  officer  was  in  some  way  connected 
with  the  affair.  He  might  even  have  mentally  suspected 
him  of  the  crime,  but  for  one  circumstance.  It  was  at 
precisely  eleven  o'clock  Midge  had  first  been  alarmed  by 
the  flpng  footsteps  of  the  assassin  ;  and  at  precisely  eleven 
the  Princess  Royal  had  left  Speckport,  with  the  captain 
on  board.  It  was  clear  he  could  not  be  in  two  places  at 
once ;  so  Yal  had  acquitted  him  of  the  murder,  but  not  of 
knowing  Cherrie's  whereabouts.  Even  now,  he  was  any- 
thing but  ready  to  take  him  at  his  word,  but  it  was  useless 
to  press  the  question. 

*'  How  do  they  get  on  in  Cottage  Street  ?"  he  asked. 
"  I  presume  you  are  there  every  day." 

"  I  call  every  day,  of  coui'se,"  replied  Captain  Caven- 
dish, a  slight  flush  coloring  his  nonchalant  face ;  "  but  I 
never  see  any  one  except  Midge,  or  that  other  girl." 

"  Betsy  Ann  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  No  one  is  permitted  to  enter,  it  ap- 
pears, except  your  sister  and  Miss  Blair." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Yal ;  "  I  should  think  you  would  have 
the  entry  above  all  others.  Have  you  not  seen  Nathalie 
since  those  melancholy  changes  have  occurred  ?" 

"  Yes.     Once." 

"  Ah !     At  Cottage  Street  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,"  said  Yal,  who  was  never  restrained  by  senti- 
mental delicacy,  "  what  did  she  say  ?" 

"  Not  much,  but  what  she  did  say  was  exceedingly  to 
the  point.     She  gave  me  my  coup  de  conge. ''^ 


''ONE    MORE     XINFOIiTUNATE»  339 

"  You  don't  say  so  !     Did  you  take  it  ?" 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  She  was  inexorable !  Of  course, 
as  a  man  of  honor,  I  sliould  have  made  her  my  wife,  in 
spite  of  all,  but  sbe  was  determined." 

A  queer  smile  went  wimdering  for  a  second  or  two 
round  Mr.  Blake's  mouth,  but  he  instantly  called  his 
risible  faculties  to  order,  and  became  grave  again. 

"  How  are  they  ?  How  do  they  take  Charley's 
escape  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Marsh  is  poorly — confined  to  her  bed,  I  believe, 
but  Nathalie,  they  tell  me,  appears  better,  and  takes  care 
of  her  mother.  Your  sister,  however,  will  be  able  to  tell 
you  all  particulars." 

"  I  say,  Cavendish,"  exclaimed  Yal,  "  you  could  go  in 
for  Jane  McGregor,  now.  She  is  nearly  as  rich  as  poor 
Natty  was  to  be." 

"  Bah  !     What  do  I  care  for  her  riches  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  understand ;  but  just  reflect  that  her  papa 
will  give  her  ten  thousand  pounds  on  her  wedding-day, 
and  three  times  that  much  at  his  death ;  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  brought  to  take  pity  on  her." 

"  Take  pity  on  her  ?" 

"  Tab  !  Tah  !  Tali !"  cried  Yal ;  «  don't  play  innocent. 
You  know  {IS  well  as  I  do,  she  is  dying  for  you." 

"  But, my  dear  Blake,"  expostulated  the  captain,  "she 
has  red  hair  and  freckles." 

"  Auburn  hair — auburn !  As  for  the  freckles,  her 
guineas  will  cover  them.  Will  you  come  in  ?' '  They 
were  at  the  office  door,  but  Captain  Cavendish  declined. 

"  I  have  to  go  to  baiTacks,"  he  said.  "  Good  morn- 
ing." 

Mr.  Blake  spent  some  two  hours  in  his  office,  attend- 
ing to  business,  and  then  sallied  forth  again,  llis  steps 
were  bent  in  the  direction  of  Cottage  Street,  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  his  sister.  The  house  looked  as  if  some  one 
were  dead  within — the  blinds  all  down,  the  doors  all 
closed — and  no  one  visible  within  or  without.  It  was 
Midge  who  opened  the  door,  in  answer  to  his  loud  knock. 
"  How  are  you,  Midge  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Blake,  striding  in, 
"  and  how  are  Mrs.  aii.d  Miss  Marsh  '<" 


230  ''ONE    MORE    UNFORTUNATE.^ 

Midge's  reply  was  a  prolonged  and  dismal  narrative  of 
the  sufferings  of  both.  The  elder  lad  j  was  nnabb  to  leave 
her  bed — she  had  fretted  herself  into  a  low,  nerv(ras  fever, 
and  was  so  cross,  and  captious,  and  quarrelsome,  and  peevish, 
that  she  made  the  lives  of  every  one  in  the  house  a  misery 
to  them.  She  did  nothing  but  sigh,  and  cry,  and  moan, 
and  complain  from  morning  till  night,  and  from  night  till 
morning.     Nothing  they  did  pleased  her. 

Of  r^athalie.  Midge  had  the  reverse  of  this  story  to 
tell — she  never  complained  at  all.  No,  Midge  wished  she 
would  ;  her  mute  despair  was  far  harder  to  bear  than  the 
weary  complainings  of  her  mother.  She  sat  by  that  petu- 
lant invalid  mother's  side  the  livelong  day,  holding  cooling 
drinks  to  her  poor  parched  lips,  bathing  the  hot  brow  and 
hands,  and  smoothing  the  tossed  pillow ;  rarely  speaking, 
save  to  ask  or  answer  some  question ;  never  replying  to 
the  endless  reproaches  of  the  sick  woman ;  never  uttering 
one  complaint  or  shedding  one  tear. 

Mr.  Val  Blake  was  ushered  by  Midge  into  the  darkened 
chamber  of  Mrs.  Marsh,  and  looKed  at  Nathalie  sitting  by 
her  bedside.  In  spite  of  what  he  had  heard,  he  was  shock- 
ed at  the  change  which  the  past  week  had  made  in  her — 
shocked  at  the  wasted  and  shadowy  form,  the  wan,  ti*ans- 
parent  hands,  the  hollow  eyes  and  haggard  cheeks.  She 
was  dressed  in  mourning,  and  the  crape  and  bombazine 
made  her  look  quite  ghastly  by  contrast. 

Mr.  Blake's  visit  wiis  not  a  long  one.  NathaHe  scarcely 
spoke  at  all,  and  his  sister  was  not  there.  Mrs.  Mai-sL, 
who  had  been  asleep  when  he  entered,  awoke  presently, 
and  poured  her  dreary  wailings  into  his  ear.  Val  consoled 
her  as  well  as  he  could ;  but  there  was  no  balm  in  Gilead 
for  her,  and  lie  was  glad  when  he  could  with  decency  get 
out  of  the  reach  of  her  querulous  voice.  Her  time,  of  late, 
seemed  pretty  equally  divided  between  dozing  and  be- 
wailings;  and  she  fretted  hereelf  into  another  slumber 
shortly  after. 

Left  alone,  Nathalie  Marsh  sat  by  the  window,  while 
the  dull  afternoon  wore  away,  looking  out  over  the 
gloomy  bay,  with  a  darkly  brooding  face.  Her  desola- 
tion had  never  seemed  so  present  to  her  as  on  this  eerie 


''ONE    MORE     UNFORTUNATE.'"  231 

evening.  She  had  been  stunned  and  stupefied  by  the 
rapidly-falling  blows,  but  the  after-pain  was  far  more  acute 
and  keen  than  that  first  dull  sense  of  suffering.  "  Ruined 
and  disgraced  !"  they  were  the  two  ugly  words  on  which 
all  the  changes  of  her  thoughts  rang,  Euined  and  dis- 
graced !  Yes,  she  was  that ;  and  she  who  had  once  been 
the  b^le  and  boast  of  the  town  could  never  hold  up  her 
head  there  any  more.  How  those  who  had  envied  and 
hated  her  for  her  beauty  and  her  prosperity,  would  exult 
over  her  now  !  What  had  she  done  that  such  misery 
should  fall  upon  her  ?     What  had  she  done  ? 

The  little  house  in  Cottage  Street  was  very  still.  Mrs. 
Mai-sh  yet  dozed  fitfully ;  Midge  had  gone  out  to  give 
herself  an  airing,  and  Betsy  Ann  was  standing  in  the 
open  front  door,  looking  drearily  out  at  the  rain,  which 
was  beginning  to  fall  with  the  night.  Like  Mariana,  she 
was  "  a- weary," — though,  not  being  quite  so  far  gone  in 
the  blues  as  that  forlorn  lady,  she  did  not  wish  she  was 
dead — and  was  staring  dismally  at  the  slanting  rain,  when 
the  rustle  of  a  dress  on  the  stairs  made  her  turn  round, 
and  become  transfixed  with  amazement  at  beholding  Miss 
Marsh,  in  bonnet  and  shawl,  arrayed  to  go  out.  Betsy 
Ann  recoiled  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost,  for  the  white 
face  of  the  young  lady  looked  awfully  corpse-like,  in  con- 
trast with  her  sable  wrappings. 

''  Good  gracious  me !  Miss  Natty !"  she  gasped, 
"  you're  never  going  out  in  this  here  rain !  Ye'll  get 
your  death !" 

If  JSTathalie  heard  her,  she  did  not  heed,  for  she  walked 
steadily  out  and  on  through  the  wet  evening,  until  she 
was  lost  to  Betsy  Ann's  shivered  view.  There  were  very 
few  abroad  that  rainy  evening,  and  those  few  hurried 
along  with  bent  heads  and  uplifted  umbrellas,  and  saw 
not  the  black  figure  flitting  by  them  in  the  gloom.  On 
she  steadfastly  went,  through  the  soalring  rain,  heeding  it 
no  more  than  if  it  were  rays  of  sunshine ;  on,  with  one 
purpose  in  her  face,  with  iier  eyes  ever  turned  in  one 
direction — toward  the  sea. 

Cottage  Street  wound  away  with  a  path  that  led  di- 
rectly to  the  shore.     It  had  beeu  familiar  to  her  all  her 


232  ''ONE    MORE    UNFORTUNATE:' 

life,  and  there  was  an  old  disused  wharf  at  the  end,  where 
she  and  Charley  had  used  to  play  in  the  sunny  summer 
days  long  ago — a  hundred  years  ago,  it  seemed,  at  the 
least.  It  was  a  useless  old  wharf,  rotten,  and  slippery, 
and  dangerous,  to  which  boats  were  made  fast,  and  where 
fishermen  mended  then*  nets.  To  this  wharf  Nathalie 
made  her  way  in  the  thickening  darkness,  the  piteous 
rain  beating  m  her  face,  the  sea-wind  fluttering  her  black 
vail  and  soaking  dress.  Heaven  knows  what  purpose  the 
poor  half -delirious  girl  had  in  her  mind !  Perhaps  only  to 
stand  on  the  familiar  spot,  and  listen  to  the  familiar 
voices  of  the  wind  and  waves  dashing  against  the  rotten 
logs  and  sliray  planks  of  the  old  wharf,  on  which  she  had 
spent  so  many  happy  hours.  No  one  ever  knew  hew  it 
was ;  and  we  must  only  pity  her  in  her  dumb  agony  of 
despair,  and  think  as  mercifully  of  the  dark  and  dis- 
tracted soul  as  we  can.  The  night  was  dark,  the  wharf 
dangerous  and  shppery  with  the  rain,  and  one  might  easily 
miss  their  footing  and  fall.  Who  can  say  liow  it  was  ? 
but  there  was  a  suppressed  cry — the  last  wail  of  that 
despairing  soul — a  sullen  plunge,  a  struggle  in  the  black 
and  dreadful  waters,  another  smothered  cry,  and  then  the 
wharf  was  empty,  and  the  devouring  waves  had  closed 
over  the  golden  head  of  Nathalie  Mai*sh  ! 

In  the  roar  of  the  surf  on  the  shore,  and  the  wailing 
cry  of  the  night  wind,  there  was  no  voice  to  tell  what  had 
happened  in  the  lonely  gloom  of  the  rainy  night.  No, 
surely,  or  the  faithful  servant,  who  entered  the  cottage 
dripping,  after  her  constitutional,  would  have  fled  wildly 
to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  instead  of  standing  there  in 
the  kitchen,  talking  to  Betsy  Ann,  as  she  placed  her  wet 
umbrella  in  a  corner  to  drip. 

"  I  went  up  to  Miss  Jo's,"  said  Midge,  shaking  herself, 
and  giving  Betsy  Ann  an  impromptu  shower-bath,  "  and 
she  made  me  stay  for  tea,  and  fetch  tliis  umberel  home. 
How's  the  Missis — asleep  ?" 

"  Yes  ,"  said  Betsy  Ann,  looking  nervous  and  scared, 
for  she  was  mortally  afraid  of  the  dwarf  ;  "  but  you  didn't 
— ^I  mean  to  say,  was  not  Miss  Natty  to  Blake's  2" 


*'ONE    MORE     ITNFORTimATE.''  233 

"  Miss — Wliat !"  screamed  Midge ;  "  how  should 
Miss  Natty  get  there,  stupid  !  Isn't  she  in  her  own  room  ?" 

"  No,  she  ain't,"  said  Betsy  Ann,  looking  still  more 
scared  ;  "  and  I  don't  know  wliere  she  is,  neithor !  She 
came  down  stairs  just  afore  dark,  with  her  things  on,  and 
went  out  in  all  the  rain.  Siie  wouldn't  tell  me  where 
■she  was  going,  and  she  wouldn't  stay  in  for  me ;  and  you 
needn't  look  so  mad  about  it,  for  I  couldn't  help  it ! 
There!" 

Midge's  florid  face  turned  ashen  gray  with  terror ;  a 
vague,  nameless,  dreadful  fear,  that  brought  cold  beads 
of  sweat  out  on  her  brow.  Betsy  Ann  had  no  need  to 
back  in  alarm ;  it  was  not  anger  that  blanched  the  homely 
face,  and  her  eai*s  ware  in  no  danger  of  being  boxed. 

"  Whicii  way  did  she  take  V  she  asked,  her  very  voice 
husky  with  that  creeping  fear. 

"  She  went  straight  along,"  Betsy  Ann  replied,  "  as  if 
a  going  to  the  shore." 

It  was  the  answer  Midge  had  expected,  but  the  hands 
fastening  her  shawl  shook  so,  as  she  heard  it,  that  she 
could  hardly  iinish  that  operation. 

"  Go  to  Mr.  Blake !"  she  said  ;  "  nm  for  your  life,  and 
tell  Mr.  Yal  to  hurry  to  the  beach,  and  fetch  a  lantern. 
Tell  him  I  am  afraid  something  dreadful  has  happened." 

She  hurried  oif  herself,  as  slie  spoke,  heedless  of  the 
invalid  up-stairs,  of  lashing  rain,  and  driving  wind,  and 
black  night.  Heedless  of  all  but  that  terrible  feai*,  Midge 
hurried  through  the  storm  to  the  shore. 

In  the  next  day's  issue  of  the  Speckport  Spouter,  the 
following  item  appeared : 

"  Mysterious  Disappearance  1 — Yesterday  eveningy 
about  seven  o'clock,  Miss  Nathalie  Marsh  quitted  her 
residence  in  Cottage  Street,  without  informing  her  friends 
where  she  was  going,  and  has  not  since  been  heard  of. 
Upon  the  discovery  of  her  absence,  search  was  made  along 
the  shore,  in  which  direction  she  was  seen  to  go,  and  a 
crape  vail,  recognized  as  belonging  to  Miss  March,  found 
on  the  old  wharf  at  the  end  of  Cottage  Street  The  vail 
had  been  caught  by  a  spike  projecting  from  the  wharf, 


2345  ''ONE    MORE    UNFORTUNATE.'' 

immediately  above  the  water.  It  is  feared  that  a  dread 
ful  accident  has  happened,  and  the  young  lady  has  been 
drowned.  She  had  been  ill  and  a  little  delirious  some  time 
before,  and  we  presume  wandered  down  to  the  old  wharf,  a 
most  dangerous  place  at  ail  times,  and  particularly  so  on  a 
dark  and  stormy  night,  such  as  last  night  was,  and  fell 
in.  Any  intelligence  of  her  will  be  thankfully  received, 
and  liberally  rewarded,  by  her  afflicted  friends.  The 
young  lady  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  might 
easily  be  recognized  by  the  luxuriant  abundance  of  her 
golden  hair." 

Speekport  rejuJ""  this  paragraph  over  its  breakfast 
coffee  and  toast,  and  was  protormdly  shocked  thereby. 
And  60  poor  Miss  Mai-sh  had  drowned  herself !  They 
had  expected  as  much  all  along — she  was  not  the  girl  to 
survive  such  disgrace  !  But  it  was  very  dreadful ;  and 
they  wouldn't  wonder  to  hear  next  that  the  poor 
bereaved  mother  had  died  of  a  broken  heart.  They 
hoped  the  body  would  be  recovered — it  would  be  a 
melancholy  consolation  to  her  friends,  not  to  say  to  her 
enemies,  who  would  then  be  out  of  doubt  as  to  her  fate. 
People  went  past  the  house  in  Cottage  Street  witli  the 
same  morbid  curiosity  that  had  driven  them  to  Kedraon 
after  the  murder,  and  stared  at  the  closed  blinds  and 
muffled  knocker,  and  thought  of  the  wretched  mother 
lying  within,  whose  footsteps  were  even  then  crossing  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

Two  weeks  passed,  and  these  charitable  wishes  were 
not  fuliilled.  The  mother  of  Nathalie  still  lay  ill  unto 
death,  and  still  faithfully  waited  on  by  Midge  and  Miss 
Jo.  It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  second  week  that  Val 
received  a  note  from  the  coroner  of  a  Ushing-village,  some 
ten  miles  up  the  coast,  informing  him  that,  the  day  pre- 
viously, the  body  of  a  woman  answering  the  description 
of  Miss  Marsh  had  been  washed  ashore,  that  an  inquest 
had  been  held,  and  a  verdict  of  "  Found  drowned "  re- 
turned. If  the  missing  girl's  friends  would  come  imme- 
diately they  might  b3  able  to  identify  the  corpse. 

Before  noon,  after  the  receipt  of  this  missive,  Mr.  Val 


''ONE    MORE     UNFORTUNATE^  235 

Blake  was  bending  over  the  corpse  of  the  drowned  woman, 
as  it  lay  in  its  rough  deal  coffin  in  the  village  dead-house. 
Before  sunset  lie  was  back  in  Speekport,  and  bore  the  deal 
coffin  and  its  quiet  contents  to  JSo.  16  Great  St.  Peter 
Street.  The  slender  girli.sh  form,  the  mourning  dress,  the 
long  fair  hair,  were  not  to  be  mistaken,  though  what  had 
been  the  face  was  too  horrible  to  look  upon.  Yal  turned 
away  from  what  had  once  been  so  beautiful,  with  a  shudder ; 
and  thought  of  the  Duke  of  Gandia,  made  a  saint  by  a 
similai"  sight.  Before  morning,  the  deal  coffin  was  inclosed 
in  another  of  rosewood,  and  a  grave  dug  in  Speekport 
Cemetery.  TIic  funeral  was  an  unusually  quiet  and 
solemn  one,  tlioagh  there  was  no  requiem  mass  for  the 
soul  of  the  departed  ollered  up  in  the  cathedral — why 
should  there  for  a  wretched  suicide,  forever  lost  ? 

Mr.  Val  Blake,  with  no  sentunentality  about  him,  and 
not  over  straight-laced  either,  in  some  things,  was  yet  a 
generous,  good-liearted  fellow  in  the  main,  and  placed  a 
'  white  marble  cross  over  tlie  dead  girl's  grave.  Some  very 
good  people  were  rather  scandalised  by  the  act.  A  cross 
over  the  grave  of  a  suicide! — it  was  sacrilege.  But  Mr. 
Blake  did  not  care  much  what  good  people  or  bad  people 
thought  or  said  of  his  actions ;  and  did  just  as  he  pleased, 
in  spite  of  their  teeth.  So  the  white  cross  remained 
gleaming  palely  in  the  spectral  moonlight,  and  casting  its 
solemn  shadow  over  the  grave  in  the  sunshine.  It  lx>re 
no  inscription — what  inscription  could  be  placed  over 
such  a  grave? — only  the  name  ''Nathalie."  Her  story 
was  told,  her  life  ended,  the  world  went  on,  and  she  was 
forgotten !  O  sublime  lesson  of  life !  told  in  three  words : 
Dead  and  forgotten ! 

So,  while  Charley  skulked  in  dark  places,  a  hunted 
criminal,  with  a  price  on  his  head,  and  his  mother  lay  still 
hovering  on  that  narrow  boundary  that  divides  life  and 
death,  morning  sunlight  and  noonday  shadows  brightened 
and  darkened  around  that  pale  cross  in  the  cemetery,  and 
the  night  winds  sighed  over  Nathalie's  grave. 


236  MBS.     BUTTEBBT'S    LODQINQB, 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

MRS.  BUTTERBY'S  LODGINGS. 

I^^^^HE  bleak  blasts  of  a  raw  March  afternoon  swept 
ll^^a^  through  the  city  streets,  cold  and  piercing, 
I^^Spl  driving  the  dust  in  whirlwinds  blindingly  into 
ll^^^^l    the  eyes  of  all  it  encountered. 

In  spite  of  the  cold  and  the  piercing  wind, 
Broadway  was  not  empty — Is  Broadway  ever  empty,  I 
wonder? — and  business-men,  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  in 
overcoats,  and  with  caps  drawn  over  their  frosty  noses, 
tore  along  like  comets,  to  home  and  dinner;  ladies  in  silks, 
and  velvets,  and  furs,  swarm  down  the  pave  to  meet  them, 
and  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  jostled  and  elbowed, 
and  pushed  and  trod  on  one  another's  heels  and  toes,  as 
usual  in  that  thronged  thoroughfare. 

Moving  among  the  ceaseless  sea  of  human  life,  con- 
tinually ebbing  and  flowing  in  Broadway,  came  a  young 
woman,  walking  rapidly.  I  say  "young  woman"  ad- 
visedly, for  she  was  not  a  lady.  Her  black  dress  was  gray 
and  dingy,  and  frayed  round  the  bottom ;  her  bTack  cloth 
mantle  was  of  the  poorest  texture  and  simplest  make,  and 
her  black  straw  bonnet  was  as  plain  and  untrimmed  as 
bonnet  could  be,  and  who  could  be  a  lady  in  such  array  as 
that  ?  To  a  good  many  of  the  Broadway  loungers,  who 
devote  their  manly  intellect  to  picking  their  teeth  in  front 
of  flrst-class  hotels,  and  stai-e  at  society  going  by  for  a  liv- 
ing, her  face  was  well  known.  It  was  a  face  not  likely  to 
pass  unnoticed — not  at  all  to  be  passed  in  a  crowd ;  and 
more  than  once  some  of  these  expensively-got-up  loafers 
had  condescended  to  follow  the  young  woman  with  the 
"  deuced  tine  eyes ;"  but  the  blacK  figure  flitted  along  as 
if  shod  with  the  shoes  of  swiftness,  and  these  languid  ad- 
mirers soon  gave  up  the  chase  in  despair. 

I  don't  think  she  ever  was  conscious  of  this  attention; 
she  walked  steadfastly  on,  looking  straight  before  her, 


MRS.     BUTTERBY'S    LOBGINOS.  237 

never  to  the  right  or  left,  her  shawl  drawn  closely  around 
her  tall,  slight  tigure,  as  much  aloue  as  if  she  hacl  been  on 
Peter  Wilkins's  desert  island.  To  a  home-sick  stranger  in 
New  York,  I  wonder  if  Broadway,  at  the  fashionable 
hour,  is  not  the  loneliest  and  dreariest  of  places  ?  Hun- 
dreds of  faces,  and  not  one  familiar  or  friendly  coun- 
tenance among  them ;  not  one  smile  or  glance  of  recogni- 
tion to  the  lonely  and  heart-weary  brother  or  sister  jostled 
about  in  their  midst.  The  men  and  women  who  passed 
might  have  been  a  set  of  automatons,  for  all  the  interest 
the  young  person  dressed  in  shabby  mourning  appeared 
to  take  in  them,  as  she  hurried  on  with  that  rapid  step 
and  that  darkly-sullen  face.  For  I  am  sorry  to  say  this 
heroine  of  mine  (and  she  is  that)  wore  a  look  of  habitual 
sullenness  that  was  almost  a  scowl,  and  something  fierce 
lay  latent  behind  the  flashing  of  those  brilliant  eyes,  and 
bitter  and  harsh  in  the  compressed  lips.  A  passing  phy- 
siognomist, not  over-choice  in  his  plirases,  meethig  her 
once  in  the  street,  had  carelessly  observed  to  a  friend 
walking  with  him,  that  "  there  was  a  spice  of  the  devil 
in  that  girl;"  and  perhaps  the  girl  herself  might  have 
agreed  with  him,  had  she  heard  it. 

Down  town  and  west  of  Broadway,  there  is  a  certain 
unfashionable  locality,  known  as  Minetta  Street.  The 
houses  are  tall  and  dingy,  and  swarm  with  dirty  children 
and  noisy  mothers ;  and  it  is  dark  and  narrow,  and  utterly 
unknown  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  Madison  Square.  Among 
the  tall  and  dingy  houses — all  so  much  alike  that  they 
might  have  been  cast  in  a  mold — there  is  one  with  a  white 
board  in  the  front  window  of  the  ground-floor,  bearing, 
in  black  letters,  the  name  "  Mrs.  Butterby,"  and  beneath 
this  legend,  "  Lodgings."  And  in  this  bleak,  windy  twi- 
light  of  this  cold  March  day,  the  young  woman  dressed 
in  black  turns  into  Minetta  Street,  and  walks  into  Mrs. 
Butterby's  with  the  air  of  one  having  the  right ;  for  she 
is  one  of  Mrs.  Butterby's  lodgers,  this  young  person,  and 
a  lodger  of  some  consequence,  not  only  to  the  house,  but 
to  the  whole  street.  And  for  this  reason — she  has  a  piano 
in  her  room !  An  old  and  battered  piano,  it  is  true,  for 
which  she  only  pays  four  dollars  per  month ;  but  still  it  is 


238  MliS.    BUTTERET'S    LODGINGS. 

a  piano,  and  the  wonderful  harmonies  her  fingers  evoke 
from  its  jcllow  keys,  transfix  Minetta  Street  with  amaze- 
ment and  delight.  She  has  the  best  room  in  Mrs.  13ut- 
terbj's  house,  the  first  floor  parlor,  front,  and  there  is  the 
faded  remains  of  a  Brussels  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  a 
yellow-painted  washstand  in  the  corner,  two  caue-seated 
chairs,  with  three  le*^  between  them,  a  little  table,  with 
an  oilcloth  cover,  and  a  sheet-iron  stove ;  and  these  elegant 
luxuries  all  of  which  she  has  for  the  stipend  of  three  dol- 
lars per  week.  There  is  a  bed,  too,  and  a  small  trunk, 
and  the  battered  little  high-backed  piano,  and  there  is  al- 
most room  to  turn  round  in  the  space  which  they  leave. 
There  is  nothing  like  this  elegant  apartment  in  all  Mrs, 
Butterby's  house,  and  tlie  other  lodgers  look  into  it  with 
envious  and  admiring  eyes.  They  are  all  young  ladies, 
these  lodgei-s — young  factory-ladies,  and  young  ladies  in 
the  dressmaking,  and  pantmaking,  and  vestmaking,  and 
capmaking,  and  bookbinding  lines  of  business,  not  to  speak 
of  an  actress,  a  real  actress,  who  performed  in  a  Broad- 
way theater,  and  whom  they  look  upon  with  mingled  awe 
and  envy.  But  they  like  her  better  than  they  do  the  first- 
floor  lodger,  whom  they  unite  in  hating  with  a  cordial 
liatred  that  would  have  delighted  Dr.  Johnson.  They  are 
all  young  ladies,  but  they  stigmatize  her  as  "  that  young 
woman,"  "  that  stuck-up  thing,"  and  would  like  to  scratch 
those  bright  eyes  of  hers  out  of  her  head,  though  she 
never  did  anytliing  to  them  in  hcj*  life. 

They  knew  very  little  about  her,  either  Mrs.  Butterby 
or  her  fair  lodgers,  although  she  had  been  two  montlis  in 
the  house,  except  that  her  name  was  Miss  Wade,  that  she 
earned  her  living  as  an  embroideress,  and  that  she  put  on 
a  great  many  unnecessary  aii*s  for  a  New  York  seamsti*ess. 
She  embroidered  slippei'S,  tliat  were  pictures  iu  them- 
selves, on  rich  velvets  and  silks,  with  floss  and  Berlin 
wool,  and  spangles,  and  beads ;  and  cobweb  handkerchiefs, 
that  might  have  been  the  wonder  of  a  Brussels  lace-maker. 
Slie  worked  for  a  fasliionabl6  Broadway  establishment, 
who  asked  fabulous  prices  for  these  gems  of  needlework, 
and  who  doled  out  a  miserable  pittance  to  the  pale  worker, 
whose  light  ghmmered  far  into  the  night,  and  who  bent 


MRS.     JUTTEBBY'S    LODOINOS.  239 

over  the  glistening  fabric  in  the  gray  and  dismal  dawn. 
They  heard  ail  this  in  the  house,  and  nothing  more ;  for, 
except  to  the  landlady,  she  had  never,  scaicely,  exchanged 
a  word  witli  a  soul  in  it — witli  one  exception — she  had 
spoken  to  the  actress,  who  occupied  the  room  above  her 
own,  and  who  was  nearly  as  cold  and  unsociable  as  herself. 
"Birds  of  a  feather,"  the  young  ladies  said,  wlien  Mrs. 
Butterby  told  how  Miss  Wade  had  been  in  Miss  John- 
ston's room  (the  actress  was  Miss  Johnston,  in  every-day 
life,  and  Miss  St.  John  on  the  bills),  sewing  spangles  and 

fold  braid  on  Miss  Johnston's  theatrical  robes,  and  how 
liss  Johnston  had  taken  Miss  Wade  to  the  theater,  and 
had  made  her  stay  and  take  tea  with  her  in  her  own  room. 
No  human  being  of  the  "earth  earthy,"  can  quite  live 
without  any  one  to  speak  to ;  the  heart  must  turn  to  some 
one,  let  it  be  ever  so  proud  and  self -sustained,  and  the 
actress  was  made  of  less  coaree  and  rough  clay  than  the 
young  factory-ladies,  who  went  dirty  and  hoopless  all  the 
week,  and  flaunted  in  gaudy  silks  on  Sunday. 

Up  in  her  own  room,  Miss  Wade  took  oif  her  bonnet, 
and  sat  down  to  work  with  her  mantle  still  on,  for  the 
tireless  apartment  was  perishingly  cold.  She  had  sat  there 
for  nearly  an  hour,  and  the  cheerless  Marcli  gloaming  was 
falling  drearily  on  Minetta  Street,  when  there  was  a  sham- 
bling footstep  on  the  stairs,  a  shuttting,  slip-shod,  down-at- 
the-heel  tread  in  the  hal!,  and  a  rap  at  her  door.  Miss 
Wade,  work  in  hand,  opened  it,  and  saw  her  portly  land- 
lady smiling  in  the  doorway. 

"Miss  Johnston's  compliments,  Miss,  and  would  you 
j)lease  to  step  up  to  her  room,  she  says.  Bless  my  heart ! 
ain't  you  got  no  tire  on,  this  perishing  evening  ?" 

"It  was  too  much  trouble  to  light  it,"  Miss  Wade  said, 
shutting  and  locking  her  room-door,  and  going  along  tho 
(lark  and  dirty  hall,  up  a  dark  and  dirty  stiiircase,  into 
another  hall,  darker  and  dirtier  still,  and  tapping  at  the 
lirst  door  she  met. 

"  Come  in  !"  a  feminine  voice  said,  and  Miss  Wade 
went  in  accordingly.  It  was  a  smaller  chamber  than  her 
.  own,  and  far  less  sumptuously  furnished,  with  no  fine  frag- 
ments of  Brussels  on  the  bare  floor,  no  piano  in  the  comer, 


240  MES.     BUTTE RBT'S    LODGINQS, 

DO  yellow  washstand,  or  oilclotlied  table.  Its  one  dim 
window  looked  out  on  that  melancholy  sight,  a  New  York 
backyard,  and  the  gray  and  eerie  dusk  stole  palely  in,  and 
the  wild  spring  wind  rattled  the  rickety  casement.  But  it 
had  a  lire,  this  poor  little  room,  in  a  little  ugly  black  stove, 
and.  Bitting  in  the  one  chair  the  apartment  boasted  of, 
crouching  over  the  heat,  in  a  strange  and  wretched  posi- 
tion, was  the  room's  mistress,  A  poor,  faded,  pallid  crea- 
ture, young,  but  not  youthful,  with  sharp  cheekbones,  and 
sunken  eyes.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  plaid  shawl,  but  she 
looked  miserable  and  shivery,  and  crouched  so  low  over 
the  stove,  that  she  nearly  touched  it.  Sundry  gaudy  gar- 
ments, all  tinsel  and  spangles  and  glittei*,  lay  on  the  bed, 
with  two  or  three  wigs  keeping  them  company,  a  rouge- 
pot,  and  a  powder-box.  These  were  her  stage-dresses  ;  but, 
looking  at  her,  as  she  sat  there,  you  would  as  soon  think 
of  seeing  a  corpse  tricked  out  in  that  ghostly  grandeur  as 
she. 

She  rose  up  as  her  visitor  entered,  with  a  pale  smile  of 
welcome,  and  placed  the  chair  for  her.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain quiet  grace  about  her  that  stamped  her,  like  Miss 
Wade  hei'self,  God  help  hej* !  as  "  one  who  had  seen  better 
days."  But  she  was  far  more  fragile  than  the  seamstress. 
Whatever  she  had  once  been,  she  was  nothing  but  a  poor, 
wasted  shadow  now. 

"  Mrs.  Butterby  said  you  sent  for  me,"  Miss  Wade 
remarked,  taking  the  chair,  and  looking  with  a  certain 
eagerness  in  her  great  eyes.  "  You  spoke  to  the  manager, 
I  suppose  ?" 

Miss  Johnston,  who  had  seated  herself  on  a  wooden 
footstool,  did  not  look  up  to  meet  that  eager,  anxious  gaze. 

••'  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  have  been 
disappointed.  The  company  was  full,  he  said,  and  he 
wanted  no  more  novices.  He  would  not  have  taken  me, 
had  it  not  been  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of  a  friend,  and 
there  was  no  room  or  need  for  any  more.' ' 

The  sullen  look  that  had  left  Miss  Wade's  face  for  a 
moment  returned,  and  a  dark  gloom  with  it.  She  did  not 
speak ;  she  sat  with  her  brows  drawn  into  a  moody  form, 
staring  at  the  ugly  little  black  stove. 


MTiS.     nUTTEEBT'S    LODOmQS.  241 

"  A  friend  of  mine,  tliouffh,"  the  actress  went  on, "  who 
has  considerable  influence,  lias  promised  to  try  and  get 
you  a  situation  in  some  other  theater.  I  told  him  you 
would  certainly  be  successful,  and  rise  rapidly  in  the  pro- 
fession. I  know  you  possess  all  the  elements  of  a  splendid 
tra^c  actress." 

If  we  might  judge  by  the  darkly-passionate  face  and 
fiercely-smoldering  eyes,  the  young  woman  who  sat  so 
gloomily  staring  straight  before  her,  was  capable  of  acting 
a  tragedy  in  real  life,  quite  as  fast  as  on  the  stage.  There 
was  a  certain  recklessness  about  her,  that  might  break  out 
at  any  moment,  and  which  told  fate  and  poverty  had  goad- 
ed her  on  to  desperation.  When  she  spoke,  her  words 
showed  she  had  neither  heard  nor  heeded  the  actress's  last 
remark. 

"  And  so  goes  my  last  hope,"  she  said,  with  slow,  des- 
perate bitterness ;  "  the  last  hope  of  being  anything  but  a 
poor,  starved,  beggarly  drudge  all  the  days  of  my  life !  I 
am  a  fool  to  feel  disappointed.  I  might  know  well  enough 
by  this  time,  that  there  is  nothing  but  disappointment  for 
such  a  wretch  as  1 1'^ 

The  reckless  bitterness  of  this  speech  jarred  painfully 
on  the  hearer's  nerves.  Miss  Johnston  looked  at  her  hali- 
pityingly. 

"  Iherc  is  no  need  to  despair,"  she  quietly  said;  "the 
friend  of  whom  I  have  spoken  will  be  successful,  and  I 
am  certain  you  will  be  a  great  actress  yet.  With  me  it  is 
different.     1  will  never  rise  above  mediocrity." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  much,"  said  Miss  Wade, 
looking  at  her  pale,  still  face. 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  actress,  in  the  same  quiet  way. 

"  Have  you  no  ambition  at  all,  then  ?" 

"■  No !" 

Slie  did  not  say  it  indifferently,  but  in  a  tone  of  hard 
endurance.  Miss  Wade's  large  eyes  were  fixed  curiously 
on  her  face. 

''I  think,"  she  said,  "you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  and  that  it  has  crushed  the  ambition  out  of  you. 
You  were  never  born  to  be  one  of  Mi-s.  Butterby's  lodg- 
ers !     Pardon  me  if  I  am  impertinent." 
11 


212  MMS.     BUTTERBT'S    LODQINGS. 

"  You  are  not,"  the  actress  said,  neither  denying  nor 
acknowledging  the  charge.  "  Whatever  I  once  was,  I  am 
Mrs.  Batterby's  lodger  now,  and  a  poor  actress,  who  must 
sew  the  spangles  on  her  own  dress." 

She  took  off  the  bed  a  short  pink  gauze  skirt,  and  st 
bunch  of  tinsel  braid,  and  began  the  womanly  work  of 
sewing,  with  her  swift  fingers. 

"  Are  you  to  wear  that  to-night  ?"  asked  Miss  "Wade. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  the  dress  of  a  flower-girl." 

"What  is  the  play?" 

"  I  forget  the  name,"  said  the  actress,  indifferently ; 
"  it  is  a  French  vaudeville,  written  expressly  for  ns.  I  am 
Ninon,  a  flower-girl,  with  two  or  three  songs  to  sing.  Will 
you  come  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  should  like  to  go.  It  keeps  me  from 
thinking  for  a  few  houre,  and  that  in  itself  is  a  blessing. 
What  a  miserable,  worthless  piece  of  business  life  is !  I 
think  I  shall  buy  twenty  cents  worth  of  laudanum,  some 
of  these  days,  in  some  apothecary-shop,  and  put  an  end  to 
it  altogether." 

The  jarring,  reckless  tone  had  returned,  and  was  pain- 
ful to  hear.     The  actress  sewed  steadily  on,  replying  not. 

"  It  is  well  enough  for  those  girls,"  Miss  Wade  said ; 
"  those  rough,  noisy,  factory  girls,  brawny  arms,  and  souls 
that  never  rise  above  a  beau  or  silk  dresses ;  but  for  me 
and  for  you,  who  were  born  ladies — it  is  enough  to  drive 
us  mad !  Look  at  me !"  slie  cried,  rising  to  her  feet ; 
"  look  at  me.  Miss  Johnston !  Do  I  look  like  one  born 
for  a  drudge  ?  Do  I  look  like  the  women  who  fill  this 
house  ?" 

Miss  Johnston  looked  up  at  the  speaker,  doing  a  little 
private  theatrical  tragedy,  with  her  pale,  quiet  face,  un- 
moved. Perhaps  she  had  grown  so  used  to  tragedy  that 
^  it  had  become  stale  and  wearisome  to  her ;  and  the  regal 
figure  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  the  wliite  face,  and 
flaring  eyes,  disturb  her  no  more  in  her  poor  room,  than 
Lady  Macbeth,  in  black  velvet,  with  'jlood  on  her  hands, 
did  on  the  theatrical  boards. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  at  all  like  the  factory- 


MRS.     BUTTEnnr'S    LODGINGS.  243 

hands,  Miss  Wade.  I  never  donbted  you  were  bom  a 
lady." 

"  And  a  lady,  rich  and  happy,  flattered  and  com*ted,  I 
should  liave  been  jet,  but  for  the  villainy  of  a  man.  My 
curse  upon  him,  whether  he  be  living  or  dead." 

She  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor,  like  any 
other  tragedy-queen.  Miss  Johnston,  finding  it  too  dark 
to  sew,  arose,  lit  a  candle,  stood  it  on  a  wooden  box  tliat 
did  service  for  a  table,  and  composedly  pursued  her 
work. 

"  How  was  it  ?"  she  asked  ;  "is  it  long  ago  ?" 

"  Long !"  exclaimed  Miss  Wade  ;  "  it  seems  hundreds 
of  years  ago ;  though  I  suppose  scarcely  seven  have  really 
passed  since  he  fled,  taking  all  he  possessed  with  him,  and 
leaving  my  mother  and  I  to  beg,  or  starve,  or  die,  if  we 
pleased.  Of  all  the  villains  Heaven  ever  suffered  to 
pollute  this  earth,  I  think  Philip  Henderson  was  the 
worst !" 

"  Philip  Henderson  !",Mis8  Johnston  repeated,  looking 
up  from  her  work  ;  "  was  that  the  name  of  the  man  who 
defrauded  you  ?" 

"  He  was  my  step-father — the  villain !  My  own  father 
I  do  not  recollect — he  died  in  my  infancy,  leaving  my 
motlier  wealthy — the  possessor  of  half  a  million  nearly. 
She  had  married  this  irian  Henderson  before  1  was  three 
years  old ;  and  1  remember  how  pleased  I  was  when  he 
first  came,  witli,  the  little  baby -sister  he  brought  me — for 
he  was  a  widower  with  a  cliild  not  two  years  old.  Shoii;- 
ly  after  my  mother's  second  marriage,  we  left  Rochester, 
where  I  was  born.  Mr.  Hendei*son  purcluised,  with  my 
mother's  money,  of  course,  for  he  had  none  of  his  own,  a 
magnificent  place  up  at  Yonkers — a  house  like  a  castle, 
and  magnificent  grounds.  Everything  was  in  keeping; 
the  furniture,  pictures,  and  plate  superb;  a  whole  retinue 
of  servants ;  the  fastest  horses  and  finest  carriages  in  the 
country.  It  is  like  a  dream  of  fairy-land  to  me  now  to 
look  back  upon.  Oily  and  I  (his  daughter's  name  was 
Olive),  as  we  grew  up,  had  a  governess,  and  masters  in  the 
house,  and  played  in  bright  silk  dresses  among  the  pastures, 
and  fountains,  and  graperies  of  our  palace-like  home.   The 


244  MRS.      ^UTTBRBY'S    L0DGIN08. 

place  "was  filled  with  company  all  the  summer  through 
— nothing  bat  balls  and  soirees,  and  dressing  and  dancing, 
and  fetes  champetre ;  and  in  the  winter,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hendereon  came  down  to  the  city,  leaving  us  in  charge  of 
the  housekeeper  and  governess.  It  is  a  very  pleasant 
thing,  no  doubt,  spending  money  as  freely  as  if  it  were 
water ;  but,  unfortunately,  even  half  a  million  of  dollars 
will  not  last  forever.  Mj.  and  Mrs.  Henderson,  and  their 
two  daughters — for  I  passed  as  his  child,  too,  and  scarcely 
knew  the  difference  mj-self — were  all  the  fashion  for  near- 
ly ten  years,  and  then  the  change  began  to  come.  I  was 
only  thirteen,  and  not  old  enougli  to  undei^tand  the  stormy 
scenes  between  Henderson  and  my  mothj^r — her  passion- 
ate reproaches  of  his  folly  and  extravagance,  his  angry  re- 
crimination, and  the  ominous  whisperings  of  the  servants. 
Suddenly  the  crash  came — Henderson  had  fled,  taking 
Oily  with  him,  and  the  few  thousands  that  yet  remained 
of  our  princely  fortune.  He  was  over  head  and  eai*s  in 
debt ;  the  creditors  seized  everything — house,  furniture, 
plate,  and  all — and  my  mother  and  I  were  penniless.  Miss 
Johnston,  the  shock  killed  her.  She  had  always  been  frail 
and  delicate,  and  she  never  held  up  her  head  after.  She 
was  buried  before  a  month  passed  ;  and  I,  at  the  age  of 
thirteen,  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  a  pauper.  But  a 
child  of  that  age  cannot  realize  misery  as  we  can  in  after- 
years.  I  was  fully  conscious  of  present  discomfort,  but  of 
the  future  I  never  thought.  My  mother  had  left  Yonkers 
immediately  after  the  creditors'  seizure,  too  keenly  sensi- 
tive to  remain  a  beggar  where  she  had  once  reigned  a 
queen,  and  came  here  to  the  city.  She  came  here  to  an 
old  servant  of  hers,  to  whom  she  had  been  a  kind  friend 
in  other  days,  and  the  woman  did  not  forget  it.  She  was 
comfortable  enough  with  her  husband  and  two  children, 
and  she  kept  me  and  sent  me  to  learn  the  business  I  now 
work  at.  I  remained  with  her  nearly  six  years,  realizing 
more  and  more  every  day  what  I  had  lost  in  losing  wealth. 
Slie  is  dead  now.  Her  husband  is  married  again  and  gone 
to  California,  and  I  am  here,  the  most  miserable  creature, 
I  believe,  in  all  this  gi'eat  desert  of  a  city." 

She  had  been  walking  up  and  down  all  the  time,  this 


MBS.     BUTTERBT'S    LODGINGS.  245 

impetuous  Misa  "Wade,  with  rapid,  excited  steps,  speaking 
in  a  rapid,  excited  voice,  a  lierce  light  Haring  in  her  large 
angry  eyes.  The  actress  had  liuished  her  work  ;  it  lay  on 
lier  lap  now,  her  quiet  hands  folded  over  it,  her  quiet  eyes 
following  the  passionate  speaker. 

"  Wade,  I  suppose,"  was  her  first  remark,  "  was  your 
own  father's  name.     When  did  you  adopt  it?" 

"  Only  when  I  came  here.  The  name  of  Henderson 
had  long  been  odious  to  me,  but  the  family  I  lived  with 
was  too  accustomed  to  it  to  change." 

"  And  have  you  never  heard  from  this  man  Hender- 
son or  his  daughter  since  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  of  them,  which  is  as  good ;  and,  thank 
God  !  retribution  has  found  them  out !  They  are  both 
dead — he  committed  a  forgery,  and  shot  himself  to  escape 
the  consequences ;  and  Oily — she  was  always  a  miserable, 
puling,  sickly  thing — died  in  a  hospital.  They  have  been 
made  an  example  of,  thank  Heaven  !  as  they  deserved 
to  be." 

She  uttered  the  impious  thanksgiving  with  a  fierce  joy 
that  made  the  actress  recoil.  But  her  mood  changed  a 
second  after ;  she  stopped  in  her  walk,  the  darkly-sullen 
look  settling  on  her  face  again,  and  stared  blankly  at  the 
flaring  candle,  dripping  tears  of  fat  over  the  candlestick. 
So  long  she  stood  that  the  actress  rose  and  began  folding 
up  the  flower-girl's  dresses,  preparatory  to  starting  for  the 
theater. 

"  Are  you  going  ?"  Miss  Wade  asked,  coming  out  of 
her  moody  reverie. 

"  Yes,  when  I  have  had  a  cup  of  tea — it  is  drawing 
down  stairs  at  Mrs.  Butterby's  fire.  Will  you  not  take 
another  f 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  can't  eat.  I  will  wait  here  wiiile 
you  take  it." 

There  was  a  newspaper  on  the  bed.  Miss  Wade  took 
it,  and  sat  down  to  read  whilst  she  waited.  The  actress 
left  the  room,  returning  a  moment  or  tv/o  after,  with  a 
small  snub-nosed  teapot  uud  u  plate  of  buttered  toast.  She 
was  standing  at  a  little  o[)en  p:iutry  pouring  out  the  tea, 
when  she  suddenly  laid  down  tlic  ten  pot,  and  turned  round 


«46  MRS.    BUTTEBBT'S    LOnQDTOS. 

to  look  at  her  companion.  It  was  not  an  exclamation 
Miss  VV^ade  had  uttered,  it  was  a  sort  of  cry ;  and  shtj 
was  holding  the  paper  before  her,  staring  at  it  in  blauK 
amaze. 

"  What  is  the  matter  V  Miss  Johnston  inq^uired,  in  her 
calm  \oice. 

Miss  Wade  looked  up,  a  sudden  and  strange  liush  pass- 
ing over  her  colorless  face. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  slowlj.  "  That  is — I  mean  I  saw 
the — the  death  of  a  person  I  knew,  in  this  paper." 

She  held  it  up  before  her  face,  and  sat  there  while  the 
actress  drank  her  tea  and  ate  her  toast,  never  moving  or 
stirring.  Miss  Johnston  left  the  pantry,  put  on  her  bon- 
net and  shawl,  and  took  up  her  bundle  as  if  to  go. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Wade,"  she  said,  "  but  it  is 
time  for  us  to  go." 

Miss  Wade  arose,  with  the  paper  still  in  her  hand. 
Two  bright  spots,  all  unusual  there,  and  which  strong  ex- 
ijitement  alone  could  bring,  burned  on  either  cheek,  and  a 
strange  dusky  lire  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  will  go  to  the  theater  to-night.  Miss 
Johnston,"  she  said.  "  Aly  head  aches.  I  will  take  thia 
paper,  if  you  will  let  me,  and  read  it  in  my  room  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  go  to  bed." 

The  actress  assented,  looking  at  her  curiously,  and  Miss 
Wade  passed  down  the  dark  stairs  to  her  own  room. 
There  was  a  lamp  on  the  table,  which  she  lit,  then  she 
locked  the  door;  and  with  that  same  red  spot  on  each 
cheek,  and  that  same  bright  light  in  each  eye,  sat  down 
with  the  paper  to  read.  But  she  only  read  one  little  para- 
graph among  the  advertisements,  and  that  she  read  over 
and  0  7er,  and  over  again.  The  paper  was  the  Montreal 
True  W^itness,  some  two  or  three  weeks  old,  and  the  para- 
graph ran  thus : 

"  Information  Wanted. — Of  Philip  Hendereon  or  his 
heire.  When  last  heard  from  he  was  in  New  York,  but 
is  supposed  to  have  gone  to  Canada.  He  or  his  descend- 
ants will  hear  of  something  to  their  great  advantage  by 
applying  to  John  Darcy,  Banister-at-Law,  Speckport." 


TEE    EEIBESa     OF    REDMON.  M7 

CHAPTER  XXn. 

THE  HEIRESS  OF  EEDMON. 


T  is  three  days  by  steamer  and  rail-cars  from 
New  York  to  Speckport ;  but  as  steam  never 
traveled  half  as  fast  as  stoiy-tellers,  we  are 
back  tliere  in  three  seconds.  Dear,  foggy 
Speckport,  I  salute  thee  ! 
In  a  gi'imy  office,  its  floor  freshly  sprinkled,  its  win- 
dows open  to  admit  the  March-morning  sunshine,  in  a 
leathern-covered  armchair,  before  a  littered  table,  Mr. 
Darcj,  barrister-at-law,  sits  reading  the  morning  paper. 
It  i&  Jie  "Daily  Snorter,"  and  pitches  savagely  into  the 
"  Weekly  Spouter,"  whose  editor  and  proprietor,  under  the 
sarcastic  title  of  "Mickey,"  it  mildly  insinuates  is  an 
ignorant,  blundering,  bog-trotting  ignoramus,  who  ought 
still  to  be  in  the  wilds  of  Connemara  planting  potatoes, 
instead  of  undermining  the  liberty  of  this  beloved  province, 
and  t  I'ampling  the  laws  of  society  under  his  ruthless  feet, 
by  asserting,  as  he  did  yesterday,  that  a  distinguished  mem- 
ber of  the  Smasher  party  had  been  found  lying  drunk  in 
Golden  Row,  and  conveyed  in  that  unhappy  state  to  his 
residence  in  that  aristocratic  street,  instead  of  to  the  watch- 
house,  as  he  should.  Much  more  than  this  the  "  Daily 
Snorter,"  the  pet  organ  of  the  Smasher  party,  had  to  say, 
and  the  anathemas  it  fulminated  against  "  that  lilthy  sheet," 
the  "  Spouter,"  and  its  vulgar,  blocklieaded,  addle-pated  edi- 
tor, was  blood-curdling  to  peruse.  Mr.  Darcy  was  deep  in 
it  when  the  office  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Val  Blake 
lounged  carelessly  in.  Mr.  Darcy  looked  up  with  a  nod 
and  a  laugh. 

"  Good  morning,  Blake !     Fine  day,  isn't  it  ?     I  am 
just  reading  this  eulogy  the  '  Snorter  ^  gives  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  mounting  the  back  of  a  chair 
as  if  it  were  tlio  back  of  a  horse,  and  looking  the  picture 


24  TEE    HEIRESS    OF    BEDMON. 

of  calm  serenity.  "  Severe,  is  it  ?  Who  do  you  suppose  I 
had  a  letter  from  last  night  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?" 

"  You  won't  faint,  will  yon  ?  It  was  from  Charley 
Marsh !" 

Mr.  Darcy  dropped  the  "  Snorter,"  and  stared. 

"  Char — iey  Marsh !     It's  not  possible,  Blake  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is.  I  am  on  my  way  to  Cottage  Street  at  this 
present  writing,  to  tell  his  mother." 

"  Well,  this  is  an  astonisher !   And  where  is  the  boy  ?" 

"  You'd  never  guess.  A  captain  in  the  Southern 
army." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !    How  did  he  ever  get  there  ?" 

"  You  see,"  said  Yal,  "  it's  a  long  letter,  and  he  ex- 
plains everything.  After  he  broke  jail  that  time  (of 
course,  Turnbull  helped  him  ofi),  he  skulked  in  the  woods 
for  two  or  three  weeks,  visited  occasionally  by  a  friend 
(Turnbull  again),  and  through  him  heard  of  I^Iathalie's 
death.  At  last,  he  got  the  chance  of  a  blockade-runner. 
The  '  Stonewall  Jackson '  was  leaving  here,  and  he  got  on 
board,  ran  the  blockade,  and  found  liimseK  in  Dixie. 
There  he  was  offered  a  captainship,  if  he  would  stay  and 
light  a  little.  He  accepted,  and  that's  the  whole  story. 
I  must  tell  the  mother.  It  will  do  her  more  good  than 
fifty  novels  and  fifty  thousand  blue  pills.  Jo  went  into 
hysterics  of  delight  when  she  heard  it  at  breakfast,  and  I 
left  her  kicking  when  I  came  away." 

"  Does  he  say  anything  at  all  about  the  murder  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  forgot  that.  He  wants  to  know  if  Cherrie 
has  turned  up  yet,  and  says  he  may  thank  her  for  all  his 
trouble.  He  was  up  at  Redmon  that  ni^ht  to  meet  her.  She 
had  promised  to  elope  with  him,  but  she  never  came.  He 
protests  his  innocence  of  the  deed,  and  I  believe  him." 

"  Humph !"  said  Mr.  Darcy,  reflectingly.  "  It  is 
most  singular  Cherrie  does  not  turn  up.  I  dare  say  she 
could  throw  light  on  the  subject,  if  she  chose." 

"  1  don't  despair,  yet,"  said  Yal.  "  I'll  find  her  before 
I  stop,  if  she's  above  ground.  No  news  yet,  I  suppose, 
Irom  the  heirs  of  Redmon  ?" 

*'  None ;  and  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  advertising.    Not 


THE    HEIRESS    OF    REDMON.  24S 

a  I^ew  York  or  Canadian  paper  I  have  not  tried,  and  all 
alike  unsuccessfully.  I  believe  tlie  man's  dead,  and  it's  of 
no  use." 

'•  Well,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  dismounting  from  the  chair, 
"  I'm  off.  I  must  get  back  to  the  office  after  I've  seen 
Mrs.  Marsh,  and  give  the  '  Snorter '  such  a  flailing  as  it 
won't  get  over  for  a  month  of  Sundays." 

Off  went  Mr.  I31ake  like  a  long-legged  steam-engine ; 
and  Mr.  Darcy's  office  boy  entered  with  a  handful  ot  let- 
ters fi'om  the  post-office.  The  lawyer,  laying  down 
his  paper,  began  to  break  tlie  envelopes  and  read.  The 
lirst  tliree  were  business  communications,  brief  and  legal, 
in  big  buff  envelopes.  The  fourth  bore  a  different  aspect. 
It  was  considerably  stouter.  The  envelope  was  white ;  the 
writing,  a  lady's  delicate  spidery  tracery  ;  the  post-mark 
New  \  ork.  The  lawyer  surveyed  it  for  a  moment  in  grave 
surprise,  then  broke  it  open  and  began  to  read.  The  let- 
ter was  a  long  one — three  sheets  of  note-paper  closely 
written ;  and  before  he  had  got  to  the  end  of  the  first,  Mr. 
Darcy,  with  a  sort  of  shout  of  astonishment,  began  at  the 
beginning  again.  Once,  twice,  three  times,  and  Mr.  Darcy 
perused  tlie  letter;  and  then  rising,  with  the  rest  unopened, 
began  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor.  The  windows  of 
the  office  faced  the  street,  and,  glancing  out,  he  saw  Mr. 
Blake  striding  past  presently,  as  if  shod  with  seven-league 
boots.  Mr.  Darcy  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and 
hailed  him. 

"  Hallo,  Blake !    Come  up  here  a  moment,  will  you  ?" 

Mr.  Blake  looked  up,  ran  up-stairs,  and  entered  the 
office." 

"You'll  have  to  be  quick,  Mr.  Darcy,"  ho  said. 
"  Time's  precious  this  morning,  and  my  conscience  ia 
uneasy  until  I  give  the  '  Snorter '  flts.     Anything  up  ?" 

"  Yes.     The  heir  of  Redmon  has  turned  up  at  last  I" 

"  By  Jove !"  cried  Val,  "  you  don't  say  so  i  Where  ii 
he?" 

"  It's  not  a  he.  I  should  have  said  the  heiress  of  Red- 
mon has  come  to  light.  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Philip 
Henderson's  daughter  this  morning" 

"  And  Where's  Philip  himself  V 
11* 


250  Til!-:    HEIRESS     OF    UEDMON. 

"  Where  Heaven  pleases.  The  man's  dead,  and  has 
been  these  three  years,  ^o  wonder  he  never  answered 
our  advertisements." 

"  But  if,  is  a  wonder  this  daughter  of  his  did  not  ?" 

"  She  never  heard  it  until  the  day  before  she  wrote, 
and  then  by  the  merest  chance,  she  says.  She  is  very 
poor,  I  fancy,  though  she  does  not  exactly  say  so,  and 
without  the  means  to  come  on  here." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  New  York.  Mrs.  Leroy  told  me  her  brother 
resided  in  Yonkers,  with  his  wife  and  two  daughters,  she 
believed,  and  the  writer  of  this  letter  corroborates  that 
statement.  They  did  live  in  Yonkers,  she  says,  and  were 
in  affluent  circumstances  for  a  number  of  years,  until  she, 
the_writer,  was  thirteen  years  old,  when  they  became  in- 
volved in  debt,  and  everything  was  seized  by  the  creditors. 
Henderson,  the  father,  went  to  Canada.  Mrs.  Leroy  told 
me  she  heard  he  had  gone  there,  but  they  never  held  any 
correspondence.  He  went  to  Canada  and  died  there  about 
three  years  ago.  The  youngest  daughter  died  about  the 
same  time,  and  the  mother  shortly  after  their  loss  of  for- 
tune. The  writer  of  this  letter,  then,  is  the  only  survivor 
of  the  family,  and  the  rightful  heiress  of  Mrs.  Leroy's 
fortune.  She  speaks  of  Mrs.  Leroy,  too ;  says  her  father 
had  an  only  sister,  who  manied  a  New  York  Jew  of  that 
name,  for  which  low  alliance,  her  father  ever  afterwards 
refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her.  She  refers  me 
to  several  persons  in  Yonkers,  who  can  confirm  her  story, 
if  necessary ;  though,  as  she  has  not  been  there  since  she 
was  a  child  of  thirteen,  and  is  now  a  young  lady  of  twenty, 
they  would  hardly  be  able  to  identify  her.  She  works  for 
her  living,  she  says — as  a  teacher,  I  presume — and  tells 
me  to  address  ray  reply  to  '  Station  G,  Broadway.'  Her 
story  bears  truth  on  the  face  of  it,  I  think.  Here  is  the 
letter — read  it." 

Ml'.  Blake  took  the  lady-like  epistle,  and,  apparently 
forgetful  of  his  late  haste,  sat  down  and  perused  it  from 
the  date  "  New  York,  March  7th,  1862,"  to  the  sio-nature. 
"  Yours  respectfully,  Olive  W.  Henderson."  He  laid 
it  down  with  a  thoughtful  face. 


THE    HEIRESB     OF    REDMON.  «51 

"  Her  statement  is  frank  and  clear,  and  coincides  in 
every  particular  with  what  Mrs.  Leroy  told  yon.  I  don't 
think  there  is  any  deception,  but  you  had  better  write  to 
Yonkers  and  ascertain." 

"  I  shall  do  so :  and  if  all  is  right,  I  will  forward 
money  to  Miss  Henderson  to  come  here  at  once.  I  am 
heartily  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  bother  at  last.  What  will 
Speckport  say  ?" 

"  Ah,  what  won't  it  say  !  It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows 
nobody  good ;  and  what  Idlled  poor  Natty  Marsh  is  the 
making  of  this  girl.  I  wonder  if  she's  good-looking.  I 
shonldn't  mind  making  up  to  her  myself,  if  she  is." 

''  You  might  make  down  again,  then.  She  wouldn't 
touch  you  with  a  pair  of  tongs.  How  did  Mrs.  Marsh 
take  the  news  ?" 

"  She  cried  a  little,"  said  Yal,  turning  to  go,  "  and 
then  went  back  to  '  Florinda  the  Forsaken,'  I  having  dis- 
turbed her  in  the  middle  of  the  ninety-eighth  chapter." 

Nodding  familiarly,  Mr.  Blake  took  his  departure,  and 
Mr.  Darcy  sat  down  to  write  to  Station  G,  Broadway,  and 
to  Yonkers. 

Tlie  very  winds  of  heaven  seemed  to  carry  news  in 
Speckport,  and  before  nif^ht  everybody  at  all  concerned 
knew  that  the  heiress  of  Redmon  had  turned  up. 

Before  the  expiration  of  a  fortnight,  Mr.  Darcv  re- 
ceived an  answer  from  Yonkers.  Mr.  aad  Mrs.  Builip 
Henderson  had  resided  there  with  their  two  daughters 
some  years  before,  but  he  had  absconded  in  debt,  and  his 
wife  had  left  tlie  place,  and  died  shortly  after.  Harriet 
and  Olive,  they  believed,  were  the  names  of  the  children; 
but  they  knew  nothmg  whatever  of  them,  whether  they 
were  liviug  or  dead.  Mr.  Henderson,  they  had  read  in 
the  papers,  had  died  very  suddenly  in  Canada — committed 
suicide,  they  believed,  but  they  were  not  certain. 

Mr.  Darcy,  upon  receipt  of  these  lettei-s,  forwarded  a 
hundred  dollars  to  Miss  Hendereon,  desiring  her  to  come 
on  without  delay  to  Speckport,  and  take  possession  of  her 
property.  The  hunt  for  the  heire  had  given  Mr.  Darcy 
considerable  trouble,  and  he  was  very  glad  to  be  rid  of  the 


«52  THE    HEIRESS    OF    REDMON. 

bore.  He  directed  tlie  young  lady  to  come  to  his  house 
immediately  upou  -landing,  instead  of  a  hotel ;  if  she  sent 
him  word  what  day  she  would  come,  he  would  be  at  tlie 
boat  to  meet  her. 

Mr.  Yal  Blake,  among  less  noted  people,  went  down 
.to  the  wharf  one  Tuesday  afternoon,  nearly  a  fortnight 
after  Mr.  Darcy  had  dispatched  that  last  letter  containing 
tlie  hundred  dollars,  to  Kew  York.  It  was  late  in  March 
now,  a  lovely,  balmy,  June-like  day  ;  for  March,  having 
come  in  like  a  lion,  was  going  peacefully  out  like  a  lamb. 
There  was  not  a  shadow  of  fog  in  Speckport.  The  sky 
was  as  blue  as  your  eyes,  my  dear  reader — unless  youi 
eyes  happen  to  be  black — with  billowy  white  clouds  sail- 
ing like  fairy  ships  through  a  fairy  sea.  The  soft  breezes 
and  -warm  sunshine  rendered  fans  unnecessary,  and  the 
bay  was  a  sheet  of  sapphire  and  gold.  The  wharf,  a  su- 
perb wharf,  by  the  way,  and  a  delightful  promenrtde,  was 
thronged.  All  the  pretty  girls  in  Speckport — and,  oh  I 
what  a  lot  of  pretty  girls  there  are  in  Speckport — were 
there  ;  so  were  the  homely  ones,  and  all  the  nice  young 
men,  and  the  officers  with  canes  under  their  arms,  staring 
at  the  fair  Speckportians.  Young  and  old,  rich  and  poor, 
lined  the  wharf,  sitting  down,  standing  up,  and  walking 
about,  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  evening,  and  the  re- 
port that  the  new  heiress  was  coming  in  that  day's  boat. 

Mr,  Yal  Blake,  with  his  Lands  in  his  trowsers'  pockets 
as  usual,  and  his  black  Kossuth  hat  pushed  far  back  on 
his  forehead,  not  to  obstruct  his  view,  also  as  usual, 
lounged  down  through  the  crowd,  nodding  right  and  left, 
and  joined  a  group  near  the  end  of  the  wharf,  of  whom 
Miss  Jeannette  McGregor,  Miss  Laura  Blair,  Miss  Catty 
Clowrie,  and  Captain  Cavendish  formed  prominent  fea- 
tures. Two  or  three  more  officers  and  civilians  hovered 
around,  and  way  was  made  for  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Blake,  do  you  suppose  we'll  know  her  when 
she  lands?"  eagerly  inquired  Miss  McGregor.  "I  am  dy- 
ing to  see  what  she  is  like  !" 

"  Darcy's  going  on  board  after  her,"  said  Yal,  "  you'll 
Bee  him  linldng  her  up  the  wharf.  I  say,  Laura,  Bill  told 
me  you  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Rose."  • 


THE    HEIRESS    OF    BEDJIOy.  351 

"  Why,  yes,  didn't  you  know  ?  And  she  is  coming 
back  with  Mi-s,  ^V']leatly,  and  I  am  so  glad  !" 

"  Have  you  been  corresponding  with  Miss  Rose  all 
this  time,  Luui-a  'C  inquired  Miss  Ciowrie. 

"  No ;  this  is  the  lii*st  letter  I  iiave  received.  I  sent 
licr  the  '  Spouter,'  containing  Nathalie  Marsh's  death,  to 
•v^uebec,  and  she  wrote  back  in  reply.  This  is  all  I  have 
heard  of  her  until  now.  She  says  she  has  had  scarcely  a 
moment  to  hei'self." 

"  Do  you  know,  Laura,"  said  Miss  McGregor,  "I used 
to  think  she  was  half  in  love  with  Charley  Marsh  before 
that  terrible  affair  of  his.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
and  she  must  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  him,  hving  in  the 
same  house." 

"  One  might  fall  in  love  with  Charley  without  Kving 
in  the  same  house  with  him,  mightn't  they.  Catty  T' asked 
Mr.  Blake,  with  a  grin  ;  "  but  it's  all  nonsense  in  saying 
the  little  school-mistress  cared  about  him.  She  was  too 
much  of  a  saint  to  fall  in  love  with  any  one." 

''  There's  the  boat !"  cried  Captain  Cavendish ;  "  com- 
ing round  Paradise  Island!" 

"  And  there  goes  Darcy  down  the  floats,"  echoed  Val. 
"Watch  well,  ladies,  and  you  will  behold  the  heiress  of 
Iledmon  in  a  jilly." 

The  steamer  swept  around  the  island  and  floated 
gracefully  up  tiie  harbor.  In  twenty  minutes  she  was  at 
the  wharf;  a  little  army  of  cabmen,  armed  with  whips, 
stood  ready,  as  if  to  thrash  the  passengere  as  they  came 
up.  A  couple  of  M.  P.'s,  brass-buttoned,  blue-coated,  and 
red-batoned,  stood  keeping  order  amon^  the  rabble  of 
boys,  ready  to  tear  each  other's  eyes  out  for  the  privilege 
of  carrying  somebody's  luggage.  Our  party  flocked  to 
the  edge  of  the  high  wharf  overlooking  the  floats,  up 
which  the  travelers  must  come,  and  strained  their  necks 
and  eyes  to  catch  sight  of  the  heiress.  Mr.  Darcy  had 
gone  on  board  the  first  moment  he  could,  and  the  passen- 
gers were  flocking  out  and  up  the  floats.  Some  of  them, 
who  had  been  to  Speckport  before,  or  had  heard  from 
othei-s  that  it  was  one  of  the  institutions  of  the  place  for 
the  population  of  the  town  to  flock  down  on  such  occa- 


254  THE    HEIRESS     OF    REDMON. 

Bions,  passed  on  indifferently  ;  but  others,  more  ignorant, 
looked,  up  in  amazement,  and  wondered  if  all  those  people 
expected  friends.  Most  of  the  passengers  had  gone,  when 
there  was  an  exclamation  from  more  than  bne  mouth  of 
"  Here  she  is  !"  '*  There's  the  heiress  with  Mr.  Darcv !" 
"  Look,  she's  coming  I''  and  all  bent  forward  more  eagerly 
than  l)efore.  Yes,  Mr.  Darcy  was  slowly  ascending  the 
floats  ^vith  a  lady  on  his  arm,  a  tall  lady,  very  slender  and 
graceful  of  tigure,  wearing  a  black  silk  dress,  a  black  cloth 
mantle  trimmed  mth  purple,  a  plain  dark  traveling  bon- 
net, and  a  thick  bi-own  vail.  The  vail  defied  penetration 
— the  eyes  of  Argus  himself  could  not  have  discovered 
the  face  behind  it. 

"  Oh,  hang  the  vail !"  cried  Captain  Cavendish  ;  "  they 
ought  to  be  indicted  as  public  nuisances.  The  face  be- 
longing to  such  a  tigure  should  be  pretty!" 

"  IIow  tall  she  is  1"  exclaimed  M^ss  McGregor,  who  was 
i-ather  dumpy  than  otherwise.   "  She  is  a  perfect  giantess  !" 

"  Five  feet  six,  I  should  say,  was  mademoiselle's 
height,"  remarked  Val,  with  mathematical  precision.  "I 
like  tall  women.     How  stately  she  walks !" 

"  I  suppose  she'll  be  putting  on  airs  now,"  remarked 
Miss  McGregor,  with  true  feminine  dislike  to  hear  an- 
other woman  praised ;  "  and  forget  she  ever  had  to  work 
for  her  living  in  New  York.  Or  perhaps  she'll  go  back 
there  and  take  her  fortune  with  her." 

"  You  wouldn't  be  sorry,  Jeannette,  would  yon?"  said 
Lanra.  "  She's  a  terrible  rival,  I  know,  with  her  thirty- 
thousand  pounds,  and  her  stately  statm'e.  Val,  I  wish 
you  would  find  out  what  she  is  like  before  you  come  to 
our  house  this  evening.  Yon  can  do  anything  you  please, 
and  I  am  dying  to  know." 

"  All  right,"  said  Val ;  "shall  I  drop  into  Darcy'8,and 
ask  Miss  Hendei-son  to  stand  up  for  inspection,  in  order 
that  I  may  report  to  Miss  Blair  ?" 

''  Oh,  nonsense  !  you  can  go  into  Mr.  Darcy's  if  you 
like,  and  sec  her,  without  making  a  goose  of  youi-self." 

"  And  I'll  go  with  him,  Miss  Laura,"  said  Mr.  Tom 
Oaks,  sauntering  up.  "  Blake  has  no  more  eye  for  beauty 
than  a  cow,  or  he  would  not  have  Kved  in  Speckport  aU 


THE    HEIRESS     OF    RED M ON.  255 

these  years,  and  be  a  single  man  to-day.  We'll  both  drop 
in  to  Darcy's  on  our  way  to  you,  Miss  Blair,  with  a  full, 
true,  and  particular  account  of  Miss  Henderson's  cliaruis," 

"  Oh,  her  charms  are  beyond  dispute,  already,"  said 
Captain  Cavendish ;  "  she  has  thirty  thousand,  to  our  cer- 
tain knowledge." 

"  And  of  all  charms,"  drawled  Lieutenant  the  Honor- 
able Blank,  "  we  know  that  golden  ones  are  the  most  to 
your  taste,  Cavendish.  You'd  lietter  be  careful  and  not 
])ut  your  foot  m  it  with  this  heiress,  as  they  tell  me  you 
did  with  the  last." 

Very  few  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Captain 
Cavendish  disconcerted.  He  only  stared  icily  at  his 
brother-officer,  and  offered  his  arm  to  Miss  McGregor  to 
lead  her  to  her  carriage,  which  was  in  waiting,  wliile  Mr. 
Oaks  did  the  same  duty  for  Laura.  Mr.  Blake  saw  her 
led  olf  under  his  very  nose,  with  sublimest  unconcern, 
and  lounged  along  the  wharf,  watching  the  deck-hands 
getting  out  freight,  with  far  more  interest  than  he  could 
ever  have  felt  in  Laura's  pretty  tittle-tattle.  If  that  lady 
felt  disappointed,  she  knew  the  proprieties  a  great  deal 
too  well  to  betray  it,  and  held  a  laughing  flirtation  all  the 
way  up  the  wharf  with  Mr.  Tom  Oaks. 

"  You  will  be  sure  to  tind  out  what  the  heiress  is 
like,"  she  said,  bounding  into  the  carriage.  "  I  shall 
never  know  a  moment's  peace  until  I  ascertain." 

'"  I  will  go  to  Darcy's  witli  Blake,"  answered  Tom ; 
"  that's  all  I  can  do.  If  she  shows  it  is  all  right ;  if  she 
don't,  a  fellow  can't  very  well  send  word  to  her  to  come 
and  exhibit  herself.     Adieu,  mesdemoiselles  !" 

The  two  gentlemen  tipped  their  chapeaux  gallantly  as 
the  carriage  rattled  off  up  the  hilly  streets  of  Speckport ; 
for  every  street  in  Speckport  is  decidedly  "the  rocky  road 
to  Dublin."  Mr.  Oaks  hunted  up  Mr.  Blake,  and  led  him 
oS  from  the  fascinating  spot,  where  the  men  were  noisily 
getting  out  barrels,  and  bales  and  boxes. 

"  I'll  call  round  for  you,  Blake,"  he  said  ;  "  and  we'll 
drop  into  Darcy's,  promiscuous,  as  it  were,  before  going  to 
Laura's.  I  want  to  see  the  heiress  myself,  as  much  as  tha 
girls  do." 


»03  IHE    HEIRESS    OF    REDMON. 

Mr.  Blake  was  of  much  too  easy  a  nature  to  rofnse  any 
common  request;  and  when,  about  seven  o'clock,  Mr. 
Oaks,  magniticently  got  up  in  full  evening  costume,  partly 
concealed  by  a  loose  and  stylish  overcoat,  called  at  Great 
St.  Peter's  Street,  he  found  the  master  of  No.  16  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  a  chai-acteristically  loose  and  care- 
less toilet. 

The  two  young  men  sallied  forth  into  the  brightly 
starlit  March  night,  lighting  their  cigars  as  they  went,  and 
conjecturing  what  Miss  Henderson  might  be  like.  At 
least  Mr.  Oaks  was,  Mr.  Blake  being  constitutionally  in- 
diii'erent  on  the  subject. 

"What's  the  odds?"  said  Val;  "let  her  be  as  pretty 
as  Venus,  or  as  ugly  as  a  blooming  Hottentot,  it  makes 
no  diilerence  to  you  or  I,  does  it  ?" 

"Perhaps  not  to  you,  you  dry  old  Diogenes,"  said 
Tom ;  "  but  to  me  it's  of  the  utmost  consequence,  as  I 
mean  to  marry  her,  should  she  turn  out  to  be  hand- 
some." 

Mr.  Blake  stared,  for  Mr.  Oaks  had  delivered  himself 
of  this  speech  with  profoundest  gravity ;  but  as  they  were 
at  the  lawyer's  door,  there  was  no  time  for  friendly  re- 
monstrance on  such'  precipitate  rashness.  Val  rang,  and 
was  sho\vn  by  the  young  lady  who  answered  the  bell,  and 
did  general  housework  for  Mi's.  Darcy,  into  the  parlor. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darcy  were  there,  and  so  was  the  new  heir- 
ess, to  whom  they  were  presented  in  form.  She  still  wore 
her  black  silk  dress,  and  lay  back  in  a  cushioned  rocker, 
looking  at  the  bright  coal-fire,  and  talking  very  Httle.  It 
was  very  easy  to  look  at  her ;  had  she  been  a  tall  statue, 
draped  in  black,  it  could  scarcely  have  been  easier;  aud 
the  two  gentlemen  took  a  mental  photograph  of  her,  for 
Miss  Blair's  benefit  and  their  own,  before  they  had  bcjen 
two  minutes  in  the  room. 

"  We  were  on  our  way  to  Miss  Blair's  tea-splash,"  Mr. 
Blake  explained,  "  and  dropped  in.  You're  not  coming, 
]  suppose?" 

Ko,  a  note-apology  had  been  sent.  They  were  noi 
going.  Mi's.  Darcy  was  saying  this  when  the  young  lady 
looked  suddenly  up. 


THE    nEIBESS     OF    REDMOX.  257 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  stay  on  my  account,"  phe  said. 
"  I  am  ratiier  fatigued,  and  will  retire.  I  shall  be  sorry  if 
my  arrival  deprives  you  of  any  pleasure." 

She  had  a  most  melodious  voice,  deep,  but  musical, 
and  her  smile  lit  up  her  whole  dark  face  with  a  luminous 
briglitness,  most  fascinating,  but  not  easily  described. 
'You  know  the  magnetic  power  some  of  these  dark  faces 
have,  of  kindling  into  sudden  light,  and  howi  bewitching 
it  is.  Mr.  Oaks  seemed  to  find  it  so ;  for  she  was  gazing 
with  an  entranced  absorption  that  rendered  him  utterly 
oblivious  of  all  the  rules  of  polite  breeding. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darcy  hastened  to  disclaim  the  idea  of 
her  presence  depriving  them  of  any  pleasure  whatever,  as 
people  always  do  on  these  occasions,  and  repeated  their 
intention  of  not  going.  Messrs.  Blake  and  Oaks  accord- 
ingly took  their  leave,  and  sallied  forth  again  under  the 
quiet  stars  for  the  residence  of  Miss  Laura  Blair. 

The  pretty  drawing-room  of  Laura's  home  was  bright 
with  gaslight  and  flowers,  and  fine  faces  and  charming 
toilets,  and  red  coats,  for  the  otHcers  were  there  when 
they  entered.  What  Mr.  Blake  had  denominated  a  "  tea- 
splash  "  was  a  grand  birth-day  ball.  Miss  Laura  was  just 
twenty-one  that  night.  She  danced  up  to  them  as  they 
entered,  looking  wonderfully  pretty  in  rose-silk,  and  float- 
ing white  lace,  white  roses  in  her  hair  and  looping  up  her 
rich  skirt.  "  So  you  have  come  at  la^it !"  was  her  cry,  ad- 
dressing Tom  Oaks,  and  quite  ignoring  Mr.  Blake — the 
little  hypocrite !     "  Have  you  seen  Miss  Henderson  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Val,  taking  it  upon  himself  to  reply, 
"  and  she's  homely.     Her  nose  turns  up." 

There  was  a  cry  of  consternation  from  a  group  of 
ladies,  who  came  fluttering  around  them,  Miss  Jo,  tall  and 
gaunt,  and  grand,  in  their  midst. 

"  Homely !"  shouted  Mr.  Oaks,  glaring  upon  Val. 
"  You  lying  villain,  I'll  knock  you  down  if  you  repeat 
such  a  slander.  She  is  beautiful  as  an  angel !  the  loveliest 
girl  I  ever  looked  upon." 

Everybody  stared,  and  there  was  a  giggle  and  a 
flutter  among  the  pretty  ones  at  this  refresliingly  frank 
confession. 


858  THE    HEIBE8B    OF    BEDMON. 

"  iS^onsense !"  said  Yal.  "  You  can't  deny,  Oaks,  but 
her  nose  turns  up  !" 

"  I  don't  care  whether  it  turns  up  or  down !"  yelled 
Mr.  Oaks,  "  or  whether  she's  got  any  nose  at  all !  I  know 
it's  perfect,  and  her  eyes  are  like  the  stars  of  heaven, 
and  her  complexion  the  loveliest  olive  I  ever  looked 
at!" 

«  Olive !"-  said  Mr.  Blake.  « I'll  take  my  oath  it's 
yellow,  and  she's  as  skinny  as  our  Jo  there." 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Blake,  for  the  comphment, 
I'm  sure  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Jo,  flashing  lire  at  the  speaker ; 
"and  I  think  you  might  liave  a  little  more  politeness  than 
running  down  the  poor  young  lady,  if  her  nose  does  turn 
up.  Sure,  she  is  not  to  blame,  poor  creature !  if  she  is 
ugly!" 

"  But,  I  tell  you,  ma'am,"  roared  Mr.  Oaks,  growing 
scarlet  in  the  face,  "she  is  not  ugly!  She's  beautiful  I 
She's  divine !     She's  an  angel ! — that's  what  she  is !" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  resignedly,  "  if  she's  an  angel, 
all  I've  got  to  say  is,  that  angels  ain't  much  to  my  tasto. 
She  is  not  half  as  pretty  as  yourself,  Laura ;  and  now  I 
want  you  to  dance  with  me.  after  that." 

Miss  Blair,  with  a  radiant  face,  put  her  pretty  white 
hand  on  Val's  coat-sleeve,  and  marched  him  on.  A  quad- 
rille  was  just  forming,  and  they  took  thoir  places. 

"So  she's  really  not  handsome,  Val?  What  is  she 
like?" 

"  Oh,  she's  tall  and  thin,  and  straight  as  a  poplar,  and 
she  has"  big,  flashing  black  eyes,  and  tar-black  hair,  all 
braided  round  her  head,  and  a  haggard  sort  of  look  that 
I  don't  admire.  I  dare  say,  Lady  M.icbeth  looked  some- 
thing like  her;  but  she  is  not  the  least  like  poor  Nathalie 
Marsh." 

"xV!i!  poor  Nathalie  !  dear  Nathalie !"  Laura  siglio  1. 
"  It  seems  like  yesterday  since  that  night  last  May,  at 
Jeannette  McGregor's,  when  she  was  the  belle  and  the 
heiress  of  liedmon,  we  all  thought,  and  Captain  Caven- 
dish ciime  for  the  lirst  time.  I  remember,  too.  Miss  lioso 
arrived  that  night,  and  we  were  asking  Charley — poor 
CJiarley ! — what  she  looked  like.     And  now  to  tliink  of 


TEE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY.  259 

all  the  changes  that  have  taken  place  I  I  declare,  it  seems 
heartless  of  us  to  be  dancing  and  enjoying  ourselves  here, 
after  all !" 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Val,  "  and  we  are  a  heartless  lot,  I 
expect ;  but,  meantime,  the  quadrille  is  commencing,  and 
as  you  have  not  taken  the  vail  yet,  Miss  Blair,  suppose 
you  make  me  a  bow,  and  let  us  have  a  whack  at  it  with 
the  rest !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  HEIRESS   OF  REDMON  EN^TERS  SOCIETY. 


PRETTY  room — Brussels  carpet  on  the  floor^ 
marble-topped  table  strewn  with  gayly-bound 
books  and  photograph-albums,  chairs  and  sofas 
cushioned  in  green  billiard-cloth,  hangings  of 
hice  and  damask  on  the  windows,  a  tall  Psyche 
mirror,  a  dressing-table,  strewn  with  ivory-backed  bnishes, 
perfume  bottles,  kid  gloves,  and  cambric  handkerchiefs ; 
and  marble  mantel,  adorned  ^vith  delicate  vases  filled  with 
flowers.  You  might  have  thought  it  a  lady's  boudoir  but 
for  the  pictures  on  the  papered  walls — pictures  of  ballet- 
dancers  and  racehorses,  with  one  or  two  Indian  scenes  of 
pigsticking,  tiger  and  jackal  hunts,  and  massacres  of 
Sepoys,  and  the  pistols  and  riding-whips  over  the  mantel, 
and  the  gentleman  standing  at  the  window,  looking  out. 
He  wore  a  captain's  uniform,  and  nothing  could  have  set 
otf  his  line  figure  so  well ;  and  this  lady-like  apartment 
wa;^  his,  and  told  folios  about  the  man's  tastes  and  cliar- 
a -.tcr.  He  stood  looking  out  on  the  lamp-lit  street,  with 
people  passing  carelessly  up  and  doum,not  looking  at  them, 
but  thinking  deeply — thinking  how  the  best-laid  plans  of 
his  life  had  been  defeated  by  that  invincible  Fate,  which 
was  the  only  deity  he  believed  in,  and  laying  fresh  plans, 
60  skillfully  to  be  cai-ried  out  as  to  baiiie  grim  Madam 


SCO  THE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    80CIETT, 

Fate  herself.  He  was  going  to  a  party  to-niglit — a  party 
given  by  Mre.Darcy,  to  introduce  the  new  heiress  of  Red- 
mon  to  Speckportian  society. 

Captain  George  Percy  Cavendish,  standing  at  the 
window,  looking  abstractedly  out  at  the  starlit  and  gaslit 
t^trcet,  was  thinking.  No  one  had  wished  more  to  see  the 
lieiress  than  he.  She  was  the  fashion,  the  sensation,  the 
notoriety  of  the  day.  What  eclat  for  him,  not  to  speak 
of  the  £olid  advantages  in  the  way  of  dollars  and  cents, 
to  carry  oS  this  heiress,  in  fair  and  open  combat,  from  all 
competitoi's.  Tom  Oaks,  the  most  insensible  of  mankind, 
had  seen  her  but  once,  and  liad  gone  raving  about  her 
ever  since.  Then,  she  was  the  heiress  of  Redmon,  and 
Captain  Cavendish  had  vowed  a  vow  long  ago,  that  Red- 
mon  and  its  thousands  should  be  his,  in  spite  of  the  very 
old  Diable  himself.  Did  he  think  remorsefully  of  that 
other  heiress  who  had  staked  all  for  him,  and  lost  the 
game  ?     I  doubt  it. 

A  little  toy  of  a  clock  on  a  Grecian  bracket  struck  ten. 
There  had  been  a  noisy  mess-dinner  to  detain  him,  and  he 
was  late;  but  he  did  not  mind  that.  Mr.  Johnson,  his 
man,  appeared,  to  assist  him  on  with  his  greatcoat,  and 
Captain  Cavendish  started  to  behold  his  fate ! 

The  drawing-room  of  the  lawyer's  house  was  filled 
when  he  entered — he  being  himself  the  latest  arrival.  He 
stood  near  the  door  for  some  time,  watching  the  figures 
passing  and  re-passing,  gliding  in  and  out  of  the  dance — 
for  they  were  dancing — glancing  from  one  to  the  other  of 
those  pretty  mantraps,  baited  in  rainbow-silk,  jewelry,  and 
artificial  fiowere,  for  the  capture  of  such  as  lie.  He  was 
looking  for  the  heiress,  but  all  of  those  faces  were  familiar, 
and  almost  all  deigned  him  their  sweetest  smiles  in  passing 
— for  was  there  another  marriageable  man  in  all  Speckport 
ari  handsome  as  he  ^  While  he  waited,  Lieutenant  the 
Honorable  L.  H.  Blank,  in  a  brilliant  scarlet  uniform,  ap- 
proached with  a  lady  on  his  arm,  and  Captain  Cavendish 
knew  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  heiress  of  Redmon ! 
She  had  been  dancing,  and  the  lieutenant  led  her  to  a 
seat,  and  left  her  to  fulfill  some  request  of  hers.  Captain 
Cavendish  looked  at  her,  with  an  electric  thrill  flashing 


THE    HEIRESS    KILTERS    SOCIETY.  961 

through  every  nerve,  Tom  Oaks  was  right  when  he  had 
called  this  woman  glorious.  It  was  the  only  word  that 
seemed  to  fit  her.  with  her  dark  Assyrian  beauty,  her  flam- 
ing black  eye,  and  superb  wealth  of  dead-black  hair.  Yes, 
she  was  glorious,  this  black-eyed  divinity,  who  was  dressed 
like  the  heroine  of  a  novel,  in  spotless  white,  floating  like 
a  pale  cloud  of  mist  all  about  her,  and  emblematic  of  vir- 
gin inn-ocence,  perhaps ;  only  this  dark  daughter  of  the 
earth  would  hardly  do  to  sit  to  an  artist  for  an  ideal 
Innocence. 

She  was  dressed  with  wonderful  simplicity,  with  a 
coronal  of  vivid  scarlet  berries  and  dark-green  leaves  in 
the  shining  braids  of  her  black  hair,  and  a  little  diamond 
star,  shining  and  scintillating  on  her  breast.  Her  nose 
might  turn  up,  her  forehead  might  be  too  broad  and  high, 
her  face  too  long  and  thin  for  classic  beauty,  but  with  all 
that  she  was  magnificent.  There  was  a  streaming  light 
in  her  great  black  eyes,  a  crimson  glow  on  her  thin  cheeks, 
and  a  sort  of.  subtle  brilliant  electricity  about  her,  not  to 
be  described,  and  not  to  be  resisted.  This  flashing-eyed 
girl  was  one  of  those  women  for  whom  worlds  have  been 
lost — dark  enchantresses  not  to  be  resisted  by  mortal  man. 

While  Captain  Cavendish  stood  there,  magnetized  and 
fascinate*],  a  ringing  laugh  at  his  elbow  made  him  look 
round.  It  was  Miss  Laura  Blair,  of  course ;  no  one  ever 
laughed  like  that,  but  herself. 

"Love  at  fii-st  sight,  is  it?"  she  asked,  with  a  wicked 
look  ;  "  come  along,  and  I'll  introduce  you." 

A  moment  after  he  was  bowing  to  the  dark  divinity, 
and  asking  her  to  dance.  Miss  Henderson  assented,  with 
a  bewitchmg  smile,  and  turned  that  dark  entrancing  face 
of  hers  to  Laura. 

"  Do  you  know  I  wanted  you,  and  have  sent  my  late 
partner  off  in  search  of  you.  I  suppose  the  poor  fellow  is 
scouring  the  house  in  vain.  They  arc  going  to  take  me 
to  Redmon  and  arotnul  the  town  to-morrow,  it  seems,  and 
I  want  to  know  if  you  will  come  V 

Come!  Laura's  sparkling  face  answered  before  her 
words.  The  enchantress  had  fascinated  her  as  well  as  the 
rest ;  and,  in  a  superb  and  gracious  sort  of  way,  she  seemed 


262  THE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

to  liave  taken  a  fancy  in  turn  to  the  laughter-loving  Blue- 
nose  damsel. 

While  Laura  was  speaking,  Lieutenant  Blank  came  up, 
looking  dazed  and  helpless  after  his  search  ;  and  directly 
after  him,  Mr.  Tom  Oaks,  who  had  been  hovering  around 
Miss  Henderson  all  the  evening,  like  a  moth  round  a 
candle.  Mr.  Oaks  wanted  her  to  dance,  and  glared  vindic- 
tively upon  Captain  Cavendish  on  hearing  she  was  engaged 
to  that  gentleman,  who  led  her  off  with  a  calm  air  of 
superiority,  very  galling  to  a  jealous  lover. 

The  dance  turned  out  to  be  a  waltz,  and  Miss  Hender- 
son waltzed  as  if  she  had  indeed  been  the  ballet-dancer 
envious  people  said  she  was.  She  floated — it  was  not  mo- 
tion— and  the  young  officer,  who  was  an  excellent  waltzer 
himself,  thought  he  never  had  such  a  partner  before  in 
his  life.  Long  after  the  rest  had  ceased,  they  floated  round 
and  round,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  the  handsomest 
pair  in  the  room.  Tom  Oaks,  looking  on,  ground  his 
teeth,  and  could  have  strangled  the  handsome  Englishman 
without  remorse. 

As  he  stood  there  glowering  upon  them,  Mr.  Darcy 
came  along  and  slapped  him  on  the  back. 

"  It's  no  use.  Oaks.  If ou  can't  compete  with  Caven- 
dish !     Handsome  couple,  are  they  not?" 

Mr.  Oaks  ground  out  something  between  his  teeth,  by 
way  of  replj',  that  was  very  like  an  oath,  and  Mi".  Darcy 
went  on  his  way,  laughing.  Standing  there,  scowUng 
darkly,  Mr.  Oaks  saw  Captain  Cavendish  lead  Miss  Hen- 
derson to  the  piano. 

Miss  Henderson  was  a  most  brilliant  pianiste,  and  quite 
electrified  Speckport  that  night.  Her  white  hands  swept 
over  the  ivory  keys,  and  a  stonn  of  music  surged  through 
the  room,  and  held  them  spell-bound. 

Those  who  had  stigmatized  her  as  a  ballet-dancer  and 
a  dress-maker  were  staggered.  Ballet-dancers  and  dress- 
makers, pooi"  things !  don't  often  play  the  piano  like  that, 
or  have  Mendelssohn's  and  Beethoven's  superbest  compo- 
sitions at  their  finger-ends.  In  short.  Miss  Hendereon 
bewitched  Speckport  that  night,  even  as  she  had  bewitched 
poor  Tom  Oaks.    Never  had  a  debut  on  the  great  stage  of 


THE    HETIiESS    ENTEIiS    &OCIETT.  263 

life  been  so  successful.  Wliere  the  witchery  lay,  none 
could  toll ;  she  was  not  beautiful  of  feature  or  complexion, 
yet  half  the  people  there  thought  her  dazzUngly  beautiful. 

In  short,  Oliv^e  Hendei-sou  was  not  the  sort  of  woman 
iire-side  fairies  and  household  angels  and  perfect  wives  are 
made  of,  but  the  kind  men  go  mad  for,  and  rarely  marry. 
She  was  so  brightly  beautitul  that  she  defied  criticism ; 
and  she  moved  in  their  midst  a  young  empress,  crowned 
with  the  scarlet  coronal  and  jetty  braids,  her  diamond-star 
scintillating  rays  of  rainbow  tire,  and  that  smiling  face  of 
hers  alluring  all.  Even  that  slow  Val  Blake  felt  the  spell 
of  the  sorceress,  recanted  his  former  heresy,  and  protested 
he  was  as  near  being  in  love  with  her  as  he  had  ever  been 
with  any  one  in  his  life. 

The  confession  was  made  to  Laura  Blair,  of  all  people 
in  the  world  ;  but  the  glamour  was  over  h^r  eyes,  too,  and 
she  heard  it  without  surprise,  almost  without  jealousy. 

"  Oh,  she's  splendid,  Yal,"  the  young  lady  enthusias- 
tically cried.  "  1  never  loved  any  one  so  much  in  my  life 
as  I  do  her !     How  could  you  say  she  was  ugly  ?" 

"  Upon  ray  word,  I  don't  know,"  responded  Mr.  Blake 
helplessly  ;  "  I  thought  she  was  at  the  time,  but  she  don't 
seem  like  the  same  person.  How  that  Cavendish  does 
stick  to  her,  to  be  sure." 

The  cold  pale  dawn  of  the  Apiil  day  was  lifting  a 
leaden  eye  over  the  bay  and  the  distant  hill-top,  when  the 
assembly  broke  up.  It  was  four  o'clock  of  a  cold  and 
winter  morning  before  the  lights  were  fled,  the  garlands 
dead,  and  the  banquet-halls  deserted.  Speckport  was  very 
quiet  as  the  tired  pleasure-seekers  went  wearily  home,  the 
cliill  sweeping  wind  penetrating  to  the  bone. 

Leaning  against  a  lamp-post,  opposite  Mr.  Darcy'8 
house,  and  gazing  with  ludicrous  earnestness  at  one  parti- 
cular window  of  that  mansion,  was  a  gentleman,  whom  the 
fold  and  uncomfortable  dawn  appeared  to  alfect  but  very 
little.  The  gentleman  was  Mr.  Tom  Oaks,  his  face  flushed, 
liis  hair  tumbled,  and  his  shirt-bosom  in  a  limp  and  wine- 
splashed  state,  and  the  window  was  that  of  Miss  Hender- 
son's room.  Heaven  only  knows  how  these  mad  lovers 
find  out  things;  perhaps  the  passion  gives  them  some 


864  THE    lIElitESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

mysterious  indication ;  bat  he  knew  tlie  window  of  her 
room,  and  stood  there  watching  her  morning-lamp  burn, 
with  an  absorption  that  rendered  him  unconscious  of  cold 
and  sleet  and  fatigue.  While  he  was  gazing  at  the  light, 
with  his  foolish  heart  in  his  ej'es,  a  hand  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder,  and  a  familiar  voice  sounded  in  his  ear : 

"  I  say,  Oaks,  old  fellow !  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 
You'll  be  laid  up  with  rheumatic  fever,  if  you  stand  in 
this  blast  much  longer." 

Tom  turned  round,  and  saw  Captain  Cavendish's  laugh- 
ing face.  The  young  officer  was  buttoned  up  to  the  chin, 
and  was  smoking  a  cigar. 

"It's  no  affair  of  youi*s,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Oaks,  rather 
more  hercely  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant.  "  The 
street's  free,  I  suppose !" 

"  01),  certainly,"  said  the  captain,  turning  carelessly 
away ;  "  only  Miss  IIendei*son  might  consider  it  rather  im- 
pertinent if  she  knew  her  window  was  watched,  and  there 
is  a  policeman  coming  this  way  who  may  possibly  take  you 
up  on  suspicion  of  burglary." 

It  is  not  improbable,  if  Captain  Cavendish  had  not 
already  been  some  paces  olf,  Tom's  list  would  liave  been 
in  his  face,  and  his  manly  length  measured  on  the  pave- 
ment. Tom  never  knev/  afterward  what  it  was  kept  him 
from  knocking  the  Englishman  down,  whom  he  already 
hated  with  the  cordial  and  savage  hatred  of  a  true  lover. 
But  the  captain  was  not  knocked  down,  and  walked  home 
to  his  elegant  rooms,  a  contemptuous  smile  on  his  lips,  but 
an  annoyed  feeling  within.  He  was  so  confoundedly 
good-looking,  he  thought,  this  big,  blustering,  noisy  Tom 
Oaks,  and  so  immensely  rich,  and  women  had  such  re- 
markably bad  taste  sometimes  that — 

"  Oh,  oshaw !"'  he  impatiently  cried  to  himself,  "  what 
am  I  thinking  of  to  fear  a  rival  in  Tom  Oaks — that  over- 
grown, blundering  idiot.  What  a  glorious  creature  she  is! 
JJy  Jove  !  if  she  were  a  beggar,  those  eyes  of  hers  might 
make  hei  fortune !" 

Early  m  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  the  plain  dark 
carryall  of  the  lawyer,  containing  himself  and  Miss  Hen- 
deison,  drove  up  to  Mr.   flair's  for  Laura. 


THE    UEIllESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY.  2C5 

Laura  did  not  keep  them  loDg  waiting ;  she  ran  down 
the  steps,  her  pretty  face  all  smiles,  and- was  helped  in  and 
driven  off.  Miss  Henderson  lay  back  like  a  princess  among 
tlie  cushions,  a  black  velvet  mantle  folded  around  her,  and 
looked  languidly  at  the  beauties  of  Speckport  as  Laura 
pointed  them  out.  Queen  Street  stared  with  all  its  eyes 
after  the  heiress,  and  the  young  ladies  envied  Miss  Blair 
her  position,  the  cynosure  of  all.  The  windows  of  Golden 
Row  were  luminous  with  eyes.  ^  If  the  heiress  of  Redmoii 
had  been  the  pig-faced  lady,  she  could  hardly  have  attract- 
ed more  attention.  But  she  might  have  been  a  duchess, 
instead  of  an  ex-searastress,  she  was  so  unafEectedly  and 
radically  indifferent ;  she  looked  at  banks,  and  custom- 
houses, and  churches,  and  squares,  and  men,  and  women, 
with  listless  eyes,  but  never  once  kindled  into  interest. 
Yes,  once  they  did.  It  was  when  they  reached  the  lower 
part  of  the  town,  Cottage  Street,  in  fact,  and  the  bay,  all 
alive  with  boats,  and  schooners,  and  steamers,  and  ships, 
came  in  sight,  its  saline  breath  sweeping  up  in  their  faces, 
and  its  deep,  solemn,  ceaseless  roar  sounding  in  their  ears. 
The  heiress  sat  erect,  and  a  vivid  light  kindled  in  her 
wonderful  eyes. 

"  Oh,  the  sea !"  she  cried ;  "  the  great,  grand,  beautiful 
sea !  Oh,  Laura !  I  should  like  to  live  where  its  voice 
would  sound  always,  night  and  day,  in  my  ears !" 

She  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  hear  every  one  the 
night  before  call  Miss  Blair  Laura,  that  the  name  came 
involuntarily,  and  Laura  liked  it  best. 

"  It  is  down  here  Nathalie  Marsh  used  to  live,"  Laura 
said ;  "  there  is  the  house.     Poor  Nathalie !" 

"  Mrs.  Darcy  was  telling  me  of  her.  She  was  very 
pretty,  was  she  not  ?" 

"  She  was  beautiful !  I^ot  Hke  you,"  said  Laura,  pay- 
ing a  compliment  with  the  utmost  simplicity  ;  "  but  fair, 
A\ith  dark  blue  eyes,  and  lon^ golden  curls,  and  the  love- 
liest singer  you  ever  heard.  Every  one  loved  her.  Poor 
Natty !" 

Tears  came  into  Laura's  eyes  as  she  spoke  of  the  friend 
she  had  loved,  and  through  tlieir  mist  she  did  not  see  how 
Olive  Henderson's  face  was  darlcening. 
12 


20«  THE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

"  I  never  received  such  a  sliock  as  when  I  heard  sho 
was  missing.  I  had  been  with  her  a  Httle  before,  and  she 
had  been  talking  so  strangely  and  wildly,  asking  me  if  I 
tliought  dl'owning  was  an  easy  death.  It  frightened  me  ; 
but  I  never  thought  she  would  do  so  dreadful  a  deed." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt,  I  suppose,  but  that  it  wat5  sui- 
cide?" 

"  Oh  no !  but  she  was  delirious ;  she  was  not  hei*self — 
my  poor,  poor  Natty !  They  talk  of  broken  hearts — if 
ever  any  one's  heart  broke,  it  was  hers  !" 

The  strange,  dark  gloom  falling  like  a  pall  on  the  face 
of  the  heiress,  darkened,  but  Laura  did  not  notice. 

"  Was  it,"  she  hesitated,  and  averted  her  face  ;  "  was 
it  the  loss  of  this  fortune  V 

"  That,  among  other  things ;  but  I  think  she  felt  most 
of  all  about  poor  Charley.  Ah !  what  a  handsome  fellow 
he  was,  and  so  fond  of  fun  and  froHc — every  one  loved 
Charley !     I  suppose  Mrs.  Darcy  told  you  all  the  story  V 

"  Yes.  You  are  quite  sure  it  wasn't  he,  after  all,  who 
committed  the  murder?" 

"  Sure !"  Laura  cried,  indignantly.  "  I  am  certain  1  If 
everybody  hadn't  been  a  pack  of  geese,  they  would  never 
have  suspected  Charley  Mai*sh,  who  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly ! 
No,  it  was  some  one  else,  and  Val---I  mean  Mr.  Blake — 
says  if  ever  Cherrie  Nettleby  is  found,  it  will  be  sure  to 
come  out !" 

"  And  Mr.  Blake  supports  Mrs.  Marsh,  Mrs.  Darcy  says. 
That  is  very  good  of  him." 

Laura's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Good !  Val  Blake's  the  best,  the  kindest-hearted,  and 
most  generous  fellow  that  ever  lived.  He  has  that  off- 
hand, unpolished  way,  you  know  ;  but  at  heart,  he  is  aa 
go(xl,  and  kind,  and  tender  as  a  woman  !" 
^ "  She  spoke  Nvith  an  eagerness — this  impulsive  Laura — 
thiit  told  her  secret  plainly  enough  ;  but  the  heu'ess  was 
thinking  of  other  thin^. 

"  She  was  engaged  to  Captain  Cavendish — this  Miss 
Mai-sh — was  she  not?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so  ;  but  it  never  was  so  publicly  given 
out.     He  wafi  her  shadow ;  and  every  one  said  it  would  be 


THE    HEIRESS     HYTERS    SOCIETY.  267 

a  match  after  Mrs.  Leroy's  death,  for  she  detested 
him." 

"  How  did  he  act  after  she  lost  her  fortune  ?" 

"Well,  the  time  was  so  sliort  between  tliat  and  her 
dreadful  death,  that  he  had  very  little  opportunity  of  do- 
ing anything ;  but  the  general  opinion  was,  tlie  engage- 
ment would  be  broken  olf.  In  fact,  he  told  Val  himself 
that  she  broke  off,  immediately  after — for  Natty  was  proud. 
He  went  to  the  house  every  day,  I  know,  until — Oh ! 
qucmd  on  pjrh  de  dtable— there  he  is  himself!" 

Laura  did  not  mean  by  this  abrupt  change  that  his  Sa- 
tanic Majesty  was  coming,  though  it  sounded  like  it.  It 
was  only  one  of  his  earthly  emissaries — Captain  Cavendish, 
on  horseback.  Captain  Cavendish  looked  handsomer  on 
hoi-seback  than  anywhere  else,  a  fact  of  which  he  was  fully 
convinced,  and  he  rode  up  and  lifted  his  hat  to  the  ladies 
with  gallant  grace. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  mesdemoiselles  !  I  called  at  your 
house,  Mr.  Darcy,  but  found  Miss  Henderson  out!  I  trust 
I  tind  you  well,  ladies,  after  last  night's  fatigue  'f ' 

He  addressed  both,  but  he  spoke  only  to  one.  That 
one  lifted  her  dark  eyes  and  bowed  distantly,  almost  coldly, 
and  it  was  Laura  who  answered. 

"  Seven  or  eight  hours'  incessant  dancing  have  no 
effect  on  such  coastitutions  as  ours,  Captain  Cavendish ! 
We  have  been  showing  Miss  Henderson  the  lions  of  Speck- 
port  !" 

*'  And  what  does  Miss  Henderson  think  of  those  ani- 
mals*" 

"  I  like  Speckport,"  she  said,  scarcely  taking  the  trouble 
to  lift  her  proud  eyes ;  "  this  part  of  it  particularly." 

Slie  was  in  no  mood  for  convereation,  and  took  little 
pains  to  conceal  it.  "jSTot  at  home  to  suitors,"  was  print- 
ed plainly  on  those  contracted  black  brows,  and  in  the 
somber  depths  of  those  gloomy  eyes.  Captain  Cavendish 
lifted  his  hat  and  rode  on,  and  the  distrait  beauty  just 
deigned  a  formal  bend  of  her  regal  head,  and  no  more. 

Laura  smiled  a  little  maliciously  to  herself,  not  at  all 
sorry  to  see  the  irresistible  Captain  Cavendish  rather 
snubbed  than  otherwise.     There  was  nowhere  to  go  now 


208  TEE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

but  to  Redmon,  and  they  drove  along  the  qniet  road,  in 
the  gathering  twilight  of  the  short  March  afternoon.  A 
gray  and  eerie  twihght,  too,  the  low  flat  sky,  of  uniform 
leaden  tint,  hanging  dark  over  the  black  fields  and  moan- 
ing sea.  The  trees,  all  along  the  road,  stretched  out  gaunt, 
bare  arms,  and  the  cries  of  the  whirling  sea-gulls  came  up 
in  the  cold  evening  blasts.  They  had  fallen  into  silence, 
involuntarily — the  gloom  of  the  hour  and  the  dreary 
scene  weighing  down  the  spirits  of  all.  Something  of  the 
gloominess  of  the  flat  dull  landscape  lay  shadowed  on  the 
face  of  the  heiress,  as  she  shivered  behind  her  wraps  in 
the  raw  sea-gusts. 

Ann  Nettleby  stood  at  her  own  door  as  the  party  drove 
by.  The  cottage  looked  forlorn  and  stripped,  too,  with 
only  bare  poles  where  the  scarlet-runners  used  to  climb, 
and  a  dismal  entanglement  of  broom  stalks,  where  the  roses 
and  sweet  brier  used  to  flourish.  Mr.  Darcy  drew  rein  for 
a  moment  to  nod  to  the  girl. 

" How  d'ye  do,  Ann!  Any  news  from  that  runaway 
Cherrie  yet  V 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Ann,  her  eyes  fixed  curiously  on  the 
heiress. 

"  Is  this  Kedmon  ?"  asked  Miss  Henderson,  looking 
over  the  cottage  at  the  red  brick  house.  "  What  a  dismal 
place !" 

Dismal,  surely,  if  house  ever  was !  All  the  shutters 
were  closed,  all  the  doors  fastened,  no  smoke  ascending 
from  the  broken  chimneys,  no  sound  of  life  within  or 
without ;  not  even  a  dog,  to  humanize  the  ghostly  solitude 
of  the  place.  Black,  and  grim,  and  ghostly,  it  reared  its 
gloomy  front  to  the  gloomy  sky ;  the  stripped  and  skele- 
ton trees  moaning  weirdly  about  it,  an  air  of  decay  and 
desolation  over  all.  Forlorn  and  deserted,  it  looked  like  a 
haunted  house,  and  such  Speckport  believed  it  to  be. 
The  two  young  ladies  leaning  on  Mr.  Darcy's  arms  as  they 
walked  up  the  bleak,  bare  avenue,  between  the  leafless 
trees,  drew  closer  to  his  side,  in  voiceless  awe.  The  rat- 
tling branches  seemed  to  catch  at  the  heiress  as  she  passed 
them,  to  catch  savagely  at  this  new  mistress,  out  of  whose 
face  every  trace  of  color  had  slowly  died  away. 


THE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY.  269 

"  It's  a  disnial  old  barrack,"  Mr.  Darcj  said,  trying  to 
laugh;  "but  you  two  girls  needn't  look  like  ghosts  about 
it.  If  the  sun  was  shining  now,  I  dare  say  you  would  be 
laughing  at  its  grimness,  both  of  you." 

"'  I  don't  know,"  said  the  heiress,  "  I  cannot  conceive 
this  place  anything  but  ghostly  and  gloomy.  I  should  be 
afraid  of  that  murdered  woman  or  that  drowned  girl 
coming  out  from  under  those  black  trees  in  the  dead  of 
night.     I  shall  never  like  Redmon." 

"  Oh,  pooh !"  said  Mr.  Darey,  "  yes,  you  will.  When 
the  sun  is  shining  and  the  grass  is  green,  and  the  birds 
singing  in  these  old  trees,  you'll  sing  a  different  tune.  Miss 
Oliv^e.  We'll  have  a  villa  here,  and  this  old  rookery  out 
of  the  way,  and  line  doings  up  here,  and,  after  a  while,  a 
wedding,  with  Laura  here,  for  bridesmaid,  and  myself  to 
give  you  away.     Won't  we,  Laura  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sir.  Who  do  you  want  to 
give  her  away  to  ?" 

"  Well,  r m  not  certain.  There's  Tom  Oaks  looney 
about  her ;  and  there's  that  good-looking  Englishman,  all 
you  girls  are  dying  for.  You  Like  soldiers,  don't  you, 
Miss  Olive  ?" 

"  Not  particularly.  Especially  soldiers  who  never 
smell  powder  except  on  parade-day,  and  whose  only  bat- 
tles are  sham  ones.  I  like  those  poor  fellows  who  are 
figliting  and  dying  down  South,  but  cai*pet-knights  I 
don't  greatly  aiiect. 

"  That's  a  rap  over  the  head,  Mr.  Darcy,"  cried  Laura, 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "  I  wish  he  heard  you,  Miss  Hen- 
derson." 

"  He  might  if  he  liked,"  said  the  heiress,  scornfully. 

"  Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  taking  the  "  rap "  good- 
humoredly,  "  he  can  make  wliom  he  marries,  '  my  lady,' 
some  day.     Is  not  that  an  inducement,  my  dear  V 

"  Is  he  of  tlie  nobihty,  then  ?"  asked  Olive  Henderson, 
indifferently,  and  not  replying  to  the  question. 

"  He  is  next  heir  to  a  baronetcy.  Lady  Olive  Caven- 
dish does  not  sound  badly,  does  it  V 

"  He  used  to  come  here  often  enough  in  the  old  days," 


270  THE    HEIBESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

Laura  uaid,  ic  okiug  at  tlie  gloomy  old  mansion  ;  "  lie  waa 
all  devotion  to  poor  Nathalie." 

Miss  Henderson's  beautiful  short  upper-lip  curled. 

"  He  seems  to  have  got  wonderfully  well  over  it  in  so 
brief  a  time,  for  a  love  so  devoted." 

"  It  is  man's  nature,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Darcy ;  "here's 
the  house,  wiU  you  go  through  V 

Laura  absolutely  screamed  at  the  idea. 

"  Good  gracious,  Mr.  Darcy !  I  would  not  go  in  for  aU 
the  world.     Don't  go,  Olive — I  mean  Miss  Hendereon." 

"  Oh,  call  uie  Olive  !  1  hate  Miss  Henderson.  No,  I 
don't  care  for  going  in — the  place  has  given  me  the  hor- 
rors already." 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  carriage,  Laura  asked  her 
what  she  thought  of  Mr.  Darcy's  plan  of  the  villa. 

"  1  shall  think  about  it,"  was  the  reply.  "  Meantime, 
Mr.  Dai'cy,  I  wish  you  would  look  out  for  a  nice  house 
for  me,  one  with  a  garden  attached,  and  a  stable,  and  in 
some  nice  sti-eet,  with  a  view  of  the  water." 

"  But,  dear  me !"  said  Laura,  '"  I  should  think  it  would 
be  ever  so  much  nicer  and  handier  to  board.  It  will  be 
such  a  bother,  housekeeping  and  looking  after  servants, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing.    If  I  were  you  I  would  board." 

She  turned  upon  Laura  Blair,  her  eyes,  her  face,  her 
voice,  so  passionate,  that  that  young  lady  quite  recoiled. 

"  Laura !"  she  cried  out,  in  that  passionate  voice,  "  I 
must  have  a  home.  A.  home,  do  you  hear,  not  a  boarding- 
house.  Heaven  knows  I  liave  had  enough  of  them  to 
last  me  my  life,  and  the  sound  of  the  word  is  hateful  to 
me.  I  must  have  a  home  where  I  will  be  the  mistress, 
free  to  do  as  I  please,  to  come  and  go  as  I  like,  to  receive 
my  friends  and  go  to  them  as  it  suits  me,  unasked  and  ui;- 
questioned.  I  must  have  a  home  of  my  own,  or  I  sluii 
die." 

Mr.  Darcy  looked  out  a  house  for  the  heiress ;  an^  I 
after  a  fortnight's  search,  found  one  to  suit.  It  belonged 
to  a  certain  major,  who  was  going  with  his  bride,  a  fair 
Speckportian,  home  to  old  England,  on  a  prolonged  leave 
of  absence.  It  was  to  be  let,  all  ready  furnished  ;  it  was 
situated  around  the  corner  from  Golden  Row,  commanding 


THE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY.  271 

a  fine  view  of  tlie  harbor,  and  with  two  most  essential 
requisites,  a  garden  and  a  stable.  It  was  a  pretty  little 
cottage  house,  u-itli  a  tiny  drawing-room  opening  into  a 
library,  and  a  parlor  opening  into  a  dining-room.  There 
was  a  wide  hall  between,  with  a  delightfid  glass  porch  in  i 
front,  a  garden  fronting  the  street,  and  the  door  at  the  ^ 
other  end  of  the  hall  opening  into  a  grass-grown  back- 
yaid.  Altogether  it  was  a  pleasant  iittle  house,  and  Miss 
Hendei*son  took  it  at  once,  as  it  stood,  on  the  major's  owr 
term?,  and  made  arrangements  for  removing  there  at  once 

"I  must  have  a  horse,  Laura,  you  know,"  she  said  to 
Miss  Blair,  as  they  insj)ected  the  cottage  together,  for  the 
two  girls  had  grown  more  and  more  intimate,  with  every 
passing  day.  "  I  must  have  a  horse,  and  a  man  to  take 
care  oT  him ;  and  besides,  I  shall  feel  safer  with  a  man  in 
the  house.  Then  I  must  have  a  housekeeper,  some  nice 
motherly  old  lady,  who  will  take  aU  that  trouble  off  my 
hands ;  and  a  chambermaid,  who  must  be  pretty,  for  one 
likes  toliave  pretty  things  about  one ;  and  I  shall  get  new 
curtains  and  pictures,  and  send  to  Boston  for  a  piano  and 
lots  of  music,  and  oh,  Laura !  I  shall  be  just  as  happy  as 
a  queen  here  all  day  I'ong." 

She  vv^altzcd  round  the  room  where  they  were  alone, 
in  her  new  ^ae^  for  she  was  as  fitful  of  temper  as  an 
April  day — all  things  by  turns,  and  nothing  long.  Laura, 
wlio  wiis  lolling  back  in  a  stuffed  rocker,  looked  at  her  - 
lazily.  "A  housekeeper.  Oily!  There's  Mrs.  Hill,  that 
widow  you  told  me  once  you  thought  had  such  a  pleasant 
face.  She  is  the  widow  of  a  pilot,  and  has  no  children. 
She  lives  ^vith  her  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Clowrie,  and  would 
be  glad  of  the  place." 

Miss  Henderson  gave  a  last  whirl  and  wheeled  breezily 
down  upon  a  lounge. 

"  Would  she  ?  But  perhaps  she  wouldn't  suit.  I  want 
sonje  one  that  can  get  up  dinnere,  and  oversee  everything 
when  I  have  a  party.  1  must  have  a  cook,  too — I  forgot 
that." 

L:inra  laughed. 

"  It  you  wont  dinuw'loss  one  ihiy^  yon  would  be  apt  to 
remember  it  altcrward.     Mrs.  Hill  is  quite  competent  to 


«7»  lEE    HEIRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

a  dinner,  or  any  otlier  emergency,  for  she  was  liousekeoper 
in  some  very  respectaJble  English  family,  before  she  mar- 
ried that  pilot.  I  am  sure  she  would  suit,  and  I  know  she 
would  like  to  come." 

"  And  I  know  I  would  like  to  have  her.  I'll  go  down 
to  Ml-.  Clowrie's  to-morrow,  and  make  her  hunt  me  up  a 
cook  and  housemaid,  and  stableman.  I  shall  want  a  gar- 
dener, too — that's  another  thing  I  forgot." 

"  Old  ITettleby  will  do  that.  I  say,  Oily,  you  ought 
to  give  us  a  house-warming." 

"  I  mean  to  ;  but  they  never  can  dance  in  these  little 
rooms.   Oh,  how  nice  it  is  to  have  a  house  of  one's  own!'* 

Laura  wondered  at  the  morbid  earnestness  of  Miss 
Henderson  on  this  subject.  She  knew  very  little  of  the 
prior  history  of  the  heiress,  beyond  that  from  great 
wealth  she  had  fallen  to  great  poverty,  and  had  had  un- 
pleasant experience  in  J^ew  York  bbarding-houses ;  the 
probable  origin  of  this  desperate  heart-sick  longing  for  a 
house  of  her  own — a  home  where  she  would  be  the  mis- 
tress, the  sovereign  queen. 

Mrs.  Hill,  the  pilot's  widow,  was  very  glad  of  Miss 
Henderson's  offer,  and  gratefully  closed  with  it  at  once. 
Perhaps  the  bread  of  dependence,  never  very  sweet,  was 
unusually  bitter,  wlien  sliced  by  the  fair  hand  of  Miss 
Catty.  She  was  a  tall,  portly  old  lady,  with  a  fair,  pleas- 
ing, un wrinkled  face,  and  kindly  blue  eyes,  that  had  a 
motherly  tenderness  in  them  for  the  rich  young  orphan 
girl. 

"  And  I  want  you  to  find  me  a  cook,  and  a  groom,  and 
a  housemaid,  Mrs.  Hill,"  Olive  said  ;  "  and  the  girl  must 
be  pretty.  I  mean  to  have  nothing  but  pretty  things 
about  me.  I  am  going  to  the  cottage  on  Monday,  and  you 
must  have  them  all  before  then." 
t  Mi*s.  Hill  was  a  treasure  of  a  housekeeper.  Before 
Saturday  night  she  had  engaged  a  competent  cook,  whose 
husband  knew  all  about  horses,  and  took  the  place  of 
groom  and  coachman.  She  got,  too,  a  chambermaid, 
with  a  charmingly  pretty  face  and  form ;  and  the  new 
window-draperies  oi  snowy  lace  and  purple  satin  were 
festooned  from  their  gilded  cornices;  and  the  new  fur- 


TEE    H EI  HESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY.  273 

nitnre  was  arranged ;  and  the  new  pictures,  lonely  little 
landscape-scenes,  hung  around  the  walls.  It  was  a  per- 
fect little  bijou  of  a  cottage,  and  the  heiress  danced  from 
room  to  room  on  Monday  morning  with  the  glee  of  a 
happy  child  delighted  with  its  new  toy,  and  hugged 
Laura  at  least  a  dozen  times  over. 

"  Oh,  Laura,  Laura,  how  happy  I  am  !  and  how  happy 
I  am  going  to  be  here !  I  feel  as  if  this  gi*eat  big  world 
were  all  sunshine  and  beauty,  and  I  were  the  happiest 
mortal  in  it !" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Laura,  "  but  don't  strangle  me,  if 
you  can  help  it.  The  rooms  are  beautiful,  and  your  deai 
live  hundred  are  dying  to  behold  them.  When  does 
that  house-warming  come  off  f 

Miss  Henderson  was  whirling  round  and  round  like  a 
crazy  teetotum,  and  now  stopped  before  Miss  Blair  with 
a  sweeping  courtesy  that  ballooned  her  dress  all  out  around 
her. 

"  On  Thursday  night,  mademoiselle,  Miss  Henderson 
is  '  At  Home'.  The  cards  will  be  issued  to  day.  Come 
and  practice  '  Come  Where  my  Love  Lies  Dreaming.' 
Captain  Cavendish  takes  the  tenor,  and  Lieutenant  Blank 
the  bass.  We  must  charm  our  friends  with  it  that 
night. " 

Miss  Henderson  did  not  invite  all  her  dear  live  hun- 
dred friends  that  Thursday  night — the  cottage-rooms 
would  not  liave  held  them.  As  it  was,  the  pretty  dining- 
room  and  parlor  were  well  lilled,  and  the  heiress  stood  re- 
ceiving her  guests  with  the  air  of  a  royal  princess  holding 
a  drawing-room.  She  looked  brilliantly  beautiful,  in  her 
dress  of  rich  mauve  silk  sweeping  the  carpet  with  its 
trailing  folds,  its  flounces  of  lilmy  black  lace,  a  circlet  of 
red  gold  in  her  dead  black  hair,  twisted  in  broad  shininw 
plaits  around  her  graceful  head,  a  diamond  necklace  and 
cross  blazing  like  a  river  of  light  around  her  swanlike 
throat,  and  a  diamond  bracelet  flashing  on  one  rounded  arm 
Speckport,  ah!  ever-envious  Spuckport,  said  these  were 
but  Australian  brilliants,  and  that  the  whole  set  had  not 
cost  three  hundred  dollars  in  New  York  ;  but  Speckport 
had  nothing  like  them,  and  Speckport  never  looked  on 
12* 


274  THE    IiniRESS    ENTERS    SOCIETY. 

•  ■ 

anytliing  so  beautiful  as  Olive  Hendereon  that  night. 
She  was  no  longer  wan  and  haggard ;  her  dark  cheeks 
had  a  scarlet  suffusion  under  the  brown  skin,  and  the 
majestic  eye  a  radiance  that  seemed  more  and  more 
glorious  every  time  you  saw  her. 

^o  one  could  complain  that  night  of  caprice  or  co- 
quetry, or  partiality ;  all  were  treated  ahke ;  Tom  Oaks, 
Lieutenant  Blank,  Mr.  Yal  Blake,  and  Captain  Caven- 
dish ;  she  had  enchanting  smiles,  and  genial  hostess  Kke 
couj'tesies  for  all,  love  for  none.  Whatever  beat  in  the 
heart  throbbing  against  the  amber  silk,  tlie  lace  and  the 
diamonds  of  her  bodice,  she  only  knew — the  beautiful 
dark  face  was  a  mask  you  could  not  read. 

Miss  Henderson's  reception  was  a  grand  success ;  Mrs. 
Hill's  supper  something  that  immortalized  her  foreyer 
after  in  Speckport.  The  guests  went  home  in  the  gray 
morning  light  with  a  dazed  feeling  that-  they  had  been 
under  a  spell  all  night,  atid  were  awakening  uncom- 
fortably from  it  now.  They  were  under  the  spell  of 
those  magical  smiles,  of  that  entrancing  face  and  voice — 
a  spell  they  were  powerless  to  withstand,  which  fasci- 
nated all  against  their  better  judgment,  which  made  poor 
Tom  Oaks  wander  up  and  down  in  the  cold,  before  the 
cottage,  until  sunrise,  to  the  imminent  risk  of  catching 
his  deatli ;  which  made  half  a  score  of  his  young  towns- 
men lose  their  sleep  and  their  appetite,  and  which  made 
Cai)tain  George  Percy  Cavendish  pace  up  and  down  his 
room  in  a  sort  of  fever  for  two  mortal  hours,  thrilling 
with  the  remembrance  of  the  flashing  light  in  those  black 
eyes,  in  the  bewildering  touch  of  those  hands.  For  you 
see,  Captain  Cavendish,  having  set  a  net  to  entrap  an 
heiress,  wjis  getting  hopelesaly  entangled  in  its  meshes 
himself,  and  was  drunk  with  the  draught  he  would  have 
held  to  her  Hps. 

And  so  the  reeling  world  went  round,  and  she  who 
wove  the  spell,  who  turned  the  heads,  and  dazed  the  hot 
brains  of  these  youn^  men,  lay  tossing  on  a  sleepless 
pillow,  sleepless  with  the  excitement  of  the  dead  hours, 
sleepless  with  something  far  worse  than  excitement — 
remoi*se  I 


TEE    ENGHANTBES8.  275 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  SI  ELL  OE  THE  ENCHANTRESS. 

HE  changes  which  Mr.  Darcy  had  prophesied 

were  going  on  at  Rcdmon.  Before  the  middle 
of  May,  the  transformation  had  begun.  The 
weird  old  red-brick  house,  liaunted  by  so  many 
dismal  associations,  lay  on  the  gronnd  a  great 
heap  of  broken  bricks  and  mortar,  and  the  villa  was  going 
up  with  a  rapidity  only  surpassed  by  Aladdin's  palace. 
Miss  Hendersou  had  drawn  out  the  plans  herself,  and 
superintended  the  works,  with  a  clear  head  and  a  bright 
eye  for  all  shortconnngs  and  deficiencies.  She  rode  over 
every  day  from  the  cottage,  mounted  on  her  black  steed 
Lightning,  her  black-velvet  cap  with  its  long  scarlet- 
tipped  plume  flashing  in  aujoug  the  workmen,  as,  with 
gathcred-up  skirt,  she  inspected  the  progress  of  the 
building. 

She  entered  with  a  true  womanly  interest  into  the  erec- 
tion and  beautifying  of  this  new  home,  and  had  quite 
got  over  her  superstitious  awe  of  the  place.  Perhaps 
this  was  owinfj  to  an  artfully-laid  plan  of  that  scheming 
lawyer,  Mr.  Darcy,  who,  being  absurdly  fond  of  the 
dark-eyed  heiress,  q,nd  fearful  of  her  depriving  Speck- 
j)orfc  of  the  light  of  licr  beautiful  countenance,  by  tiying 
oft  soniewh;,'rc,  resolved  she  should  like  Redmon,  and  re- 
side there.  Accordingly,  about  a  week  after  Miss  Hen- 
derson had  gone  to  the  cottage,  he  had  gotten-up  a  pic- 
nic to  Redmon — a  select  picnic,  with  the  military  baud 
and  a  platform  for  dancing. 

The  picnic  day  had  dawned  in  cloudless  splendor. 
Coquettish  April,  finding  she  must  yield  in  spite  of  all 
her  ,  tears  and  smiles  to  her  fairer  sister.  May,  seemed 
resolved  to  put  up  with  the  inevitable  with  a  good  grace  ; 
and  the  <lay  was  more  like  sunny  June  than  early  spring. 
Before  ten  in  the  morning  the  party  were  on  the 
grounds,   swinging  among  the  trees,  dancing    on    the 


276  THE    ENCHANTRESS. 

shaded  platform,  wandering  among  the  gi*and  old  woods, 
or  fishing  in  the  clear  streams  running  through  them. 
The  string  band,  perched  up  in  a  gallery,  played  aAvay 
merrily ;  and  what  with  sunshine  and  music,  and  gay 
laughter  and  bright  faces,  Kedmon  was  a  very  different- 
looking  place  from  the  Kedmon  of  a  few  weeks  before. 
Miss  Henderson  had  driven  Laura  Blair  up  in  a  little 
pony-caniage  she  had  purchased,  and  owned  that  Red- 
mon  was  not  so  lifeless  after  all.  But  she  did  not  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  with  any  great  zest.  Laura 
whispered  it  was  one  of  her  "  dark  days"  to  those  who  no- 
ticed the  silent,  abstracted,  almost  gloomy  manner  of  the 
heiress.  Slie  danced  very  little,  and  had  walked  moodily 
through  the  quadrille,  chafing  at  its  length,  and  then  had 
broken  from  her  partner,  and  gone  wandering  off  among 
the  trees.  Laura  Blair  made  up  in  hei*self  for  all  that 
was  wanting  in  her  friend.  She  was  everywhere  at  once ; 
now  flying  through  a  crazy  cotillon  ;  now  on  the  swings, 
flashing  in  and  out  among  the  trees ;  now  superintending 
the  unpacking,  and  assisting  Mi-s.  Hill  and  Catty  Clowrie 
to  set  ihe  table.  The  cloth  was  laid  on  the  grass ;  the 
cold  hams  and  fowls ;  the  hot  tea  and  coffee ;  the  pies, 
and  cakes,  and  sandwiches ;  the  hungry  picnickera  called, 
and  great  and  mighty  was  the  eating  thereof. 

After  dinner,  the  house  was  to  be  explored,  the  sight 
of  ghosts,  Mr.  Dai'cy  considered,  being  unfavorable  to  di- 
gestion. Some  weak-minded  persons  declined  with  a 
sliiver ;  they  had  no  desu'e  for  cold  horrors  then,  or  the 
nightmare  when  they  went  to  bed ;  and  among  the  num- 
ber was  Captain  Cavendish.  He  had  no  fancy  for  explor- 
ing ratty  old  buildings,  he  saidj  he  would  Jie  on  the  grass, 
and  smoke  his  cigar  while  they  were  doing  the  house. 
Did  any  thought  of  unfortunate  Nathalie  Marsh  obtrude 
itself  upon  the  selfish  Sybarite  as  he  lay  there,  smoking 
his  cigar,  on  the  fresh  spring  grass,  and  looking  up  through 
the  leafy  arcades  at  the  serene  April  sky?  Did  any 
thought  of  the  old  days,  and  she  who  had  loved  him  so 
true  aud  so  well,  darken  for  one  moment  that  hard,  hand- 
some mask — his  face  ?  Did  any  more  terrible  recollection 
of  a  ghostly  midnight  scene  that  old  house  had  vsitnessed, 


THE    ENCHANTRESS.  277 

come  btick,  terribly  menacing  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  The  past 
is  haunted  for  the  whole  of  us  ;  bat  we  banish  the  specter 
as  speedily  as  possible,  and  no  doubt  Captain  Cavendish 
did  tiio  same. 

Miss  Henderson,  of  course,  was  one  of  the  party,  lean- 
ing on  Mr.  Darcy's  arm;  but  her  face  was  v^ery  pale,  and  her 
great  eyes  hlled  with  a  sort  of  nameless  fear,  as  she  crossed 
its  gloomy  portal.  Laura  Blair  clung  tightly,  with  little 
dehghtful  shudders  of  apprehension,  to  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Val  Blake,  who  took  it  all  unconcernedly,  as  usual,  and 
didn't  put  himself  out  any  to  reassure  Miss  Blair.  The 
house  had  a  damp  and  earthy  odor,  as  of  the  grave;  and 
their  footsteps  echoed  with  a  dull,  dismal  sound,  as  foot- 
steps always  do  in  a  deserted  house.  Dark,  dreary,  and 
forlorn,  it  looked,  indeed,  a  haunted  house,  and  every 
voice  was  silent  in  awe ;  the  gayest  laugh  hushed  ;  the 
most  fearless  feeling  a  cold  chill  creeping  over  him. 
Rats  ran  across  their  path  ;  black  beetles  swarmed  every- 
where; the  walls  were  slimy,  and  fat  bloated  spiders 
swung  from  vast  cobwebs  wherever  they  went.  It  was 
all  dismal,  but  in  the  chamber  of  the  tragedy  most  dismal 
of  all.  They  hurried  out  of  it  almost  before  they  had 
entered  it,  and  went  into  the  next  room,  the  room  that 
had  been  Nathalie's.  In  the  darkness,  something  caught 
Val  Blake's  eye  in  one  corner.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was 
"  Paul  and  Yirginia,"  bound  in  blue  and  gold ;  and  on 
the  title-page  was  written,  in  a  man's  hand:  ''To  Nath- 
alie, from  hers  in  Hfe  and  death— G.  P.  C."  The  book 
passed  from  hand  to  hand.  No  one  spoke,  but  all  knew 
those  initials,  and  all  wondered  what  the  heiress  thought 
of  it.  That  young  lady  had  not  spoken  one  word  since 
they  had  entered  the  house,  and  her  face  was  as  white  as 
the  dress  she  wore.  But  they  had  seen  enough  now,  and 
they  hurried  out,  heartily  thankful  when  the  front  door 
boomed  slowly  behind  them,  and  they  were  in  the  sun- 
shine and  fresh  air  once  more.  Every  tongue  was  at  once 
unloosed,  and  ran  with  a  vengeance,  as  if  to  make  up  for 
lost  time.  Captain  Cavendish  started  from  the  grass, 
flung  away  his  cigar,  and  approached. 


278  THE    ENGHANTRE83. 

"  Well,  ladies — ^well,  Mis$  Laura,"  he  asked.  "  have 
you  seen  the  ghost  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Laura,  gravely.  "Here  is  a  ghost  we 
found  in  Nathalie's  room.  I  presume  you  have  the  best 
right  to  it !" 

She  handed  him  the  book  before  them  all,  and  every 
eye  was  turned  upon  him  as  he  glanced  at  the  title-page. 
His  face  changed,  in  spite  of  all  his  self-control,  turning 
nearly  as  colorless  as  Miss  Henderson's. 

"  1  believe  1  did  give  Miss  Marsh  this  once,"  he  said, 
trying  to  be  at  his  easa  "  I  suppose  you  gave  the  rats  a 
rare  frio;Jit !  There's  the  music.  Miss  McGregor,  I  be- 
lieve I  have  this  dance  ?" 

The  band  was  playmg  the  "Aline  Polka,"  and  no 
mortal  feet  could  resist  that.  All  the  girls  were  soon 
whirling  about  like  teetotums,  and  the  elderly  folks  sat 
down  for  a  game  of  euchre  on  the  grass.  Olive  Hender- 
son, declining,  coldly,  a  dozen  eager  aspirants  for  the 
honor  of  her  hand  in  the  polka,  strolled  olf  unsociably 
herself,  as  she  had  done  before.  They  were  too  busy  en- 
joying themselves  to  notice  her  absence  at  lii-st,  aud  only 
one  followed  her.  That  one  was  poor  Tom  Oaks ;  and  to 
him,  ill  h?r  absence,  the  sun  was  without  light,  the  world 
empty,  since  the  universe  held  but  her.  She  did  not  hear 
hira — she  was  leaning  against  a  tree,  looking  out  with 
that  darkly-brooding  face  of  hei-s,  over  the  spreading  fields 
and  wood,  sloping  down  to  tlie  sea,  and  all  her  own. 
Looking  out  over  that  vdde  sea,  with  a  dreary  stare,  that 
told  plainly  all  the  wealth  she  had  inherited,  all  the  love 
and  admiration  she  had  won,  had  not  the  power  to  make 
her  happy.  Her  white  dress  fluttered  in  the  spring 
breeze ;  her  shawl,  of  rich  gold-colored  crape,  fell  in  loose, 
graceful  folds,  like  sunlight-drapery,  around  her,  held  to- 
gether with  one  little  brown  hand.  Her  head  was  bare, 
and  the  shining  profusion  of  thick  black  hair  was^wisted 
in  great  serpent-like  coils  around  her  head.  She  looked 
more  sultana-like  than  ever,  holding  that  mass  of  glowinw 
golden  drapery  around  her,  a  woman  to  command  a  kin^ 
dom,  not  to  be  wooed  for  a  household-angel;  but  that  poor 
Tom  Oaks  was  down  on  the  grass  at  her  feet,  before  she 


TUB    ENCHANTRESS.  279 

knew  he  was  near,  imploring  lier  to  take  pity  upon  Lim. 
Heaven  only  knows  what  he  said — Tom  never  did  ;  but 
he  was  pouring  out  his  whole  heart  in  a  vehement  out- 
burst of  passionate  pleading.  The  man  had  chosen  ar 
vmpropitious  moment. 

"  Get  up,  Mr.  Oaks,"  the  cold  sweet  voice  said ; 
"  don't  make  such  a  scene !  Hush !  some  one  will  hear 
you." 

She  might  as  well  have  told  a  rushing  waterfall  to  liush. 
Tom  got  up,  pleading  vehemently,  passionately,  wildly, 
for  what  seemed  to  him — ^poor,  foolish  fellow ! — more 
than  life. 

"  !No,  no,  no !"  she  said,  impatiently ;  "  go  away,  Mr. 
Oaks.     It  is  of  no  use." 

It  seemed  like  the  old  parable  of  asking  for  bread  and 
receiving  a  stone.  Tom  Oaks  turned  away,  but  some- 
thing in  his  despairing  face  touched  her  woman's  heart. 
She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm,  and  looked  com- 
passionately into  his  white  face. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  faltered  a  little , 
"  I  am  sorry !  I  did  not  think  you  cared  for  me  like 
this,  but  I  canuot  help  you !  You  must  forget  me,  Mr. 
Oaks !" 

There  was  one  other  witness  to  this  little  love-passage 
besides  the  birds,  singing  their  songs,  in  the  green 
branches.  Captain  Cavendish  had  seen  Tom  Oaks  follow 
Olive  Henderson  off  the  grounds,  and  knew,  by  the  pre- 
science of  jealousy,  as  well  what  was  going  to  happen,  as 
he  did  alter  the  scene  was  over.  He  had  followed  the 
young  man,  and,  in  the  tangled  green  heart  of  the  wood, 
had  heard  every  word,  and  watched  the  white  and  amber 
Hgure  iiit  out  of  sight.  He  leaned  against  a  tree  now,  al- 
most as  pale  as  Tom  Oaks  liad  been.  But  if  she  should 
refuse  him,  too !  It  was  the  tirst  time  in  liis  life  he  had 
ever  asked  himself  that  question  ;  and  he  liad  made  love, 
and  offered  marriage  even,  to  more  than  Winnifred  Kose 
and  Nathalie  Marsh.  What  if  she  should  refuse  him  like 
this  ?  Pride,  love,  ambition,  all  were  at  stake  with  Cap- 
tain Cavendish  now,  and  wliat  if  he  should  lose  her? 
He  set  his  breath  and  clenched  his  hand  at  the  thought. 


280  TEE    ENCHANTRESa. 

"  I  will  not  lose  her !"  be  said  to  himself.  "  I  will 
not !  I  should  go  as  mad  as  that  idiot  ou  the  grass  there 
is,  if  I  lost  that  glorious  girl !" 

He  might  have  gone  after  her,  and  proposed  on  the 
spot,  had  he  not  possessed  so  fully  that  sixth  sense,  tact. 
Like  the  lady  immortalized  in  the  Irish  poem  of  "  Paddy, 
Would  You  Now,"  she  must  be  taken  when  she  was  "  in 
the  humor,"  and  tlmt  most  decidedly  was  not  to-day.  So 
he  strolled  back  to  the  rest,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  waltzing  with  his  superior  officer,  Major  Mar- 
wood,  who  was  unmarried,  and  rich,  and  one  of  her  most 
obedient  very  humble  servants. 

The  picnic  was  to  wind  up  with  what  Mr.  Blake  called 
a  "  dancoable  tea,"  at  Mr.  Darcy's,  whither  they  all  drove, 
in  the  pleasant  April  twilight,  and  the  handsome  captain 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  sitting  beside  the  heiress  in  the 
pony  carriage,  to  the  great  envy  of  every  one  else.  They 
drove  very  slowly,  watching  the  moon  rise  in  a  long  glory 
of  silvery  radiance  over  the  sleeping  sea,  while  he  told 
her  of  Italian  moon-rises,  and  Alpine  sunsets,  he  had 
gazed  upon  ;  and  she  listened,  lying  back  with  half- vailed 
eyes,  and  a  longing  sensation  of  pleasure  in  it  all  at  her 
heart.  Was  she  in  love  with  Captain  Cavendish ?  No; 
but  she  liked  him  best  of  all  her  admirers ;  and  there 
were  te^v  women  who  would  not  have  listened  with 
pleased  interest  to  tliose  vivid  word-pictures  of  far-off 
lands,  and  looked  with  admiration,  at  least,  into  that  pale, 
high-bred,  classically  handsome  face. 

Captain  Cavendish  retained  his  advantage  all  that  even- 
ing, and  left  competitors  far  behind,  lie  sang  duets  with 
Miss  Henderson,  danced  with  her,  took  her  in  to  supper, 
and  folded  the  shawl  around  her  when  they  were  going 
home.  She  might  be  the  veriest  iceberg  to-morrow,  the 
haughtiest  and  most  imperious  Cleopatra;  but  she  was 
gentle,  and  graceful,  and  all  feminine  sweetness  to-night. 
iJis  hopes  Avere  high,  his  heart  all  in  a  glow  of  thrilling 
ecstasy,  as  he  went  home,  under  the  serene  stars.  The 
cup  of  bliss  was  ahnost  at  his  lips,  and  the  many  slips 
were  quite  forgotten. 

The  afternoon  following  the  picnic,  Olive  sat  in  her 


THE    EliCUANTBESS.  281 

cottage  drawing-room  entertaiiiing  some  callers.  The  callera 
were  Major  Mtrwood,'Lieutenant  Blank,  and  Captain  Cav- 
endish. Mrs.  Darcy,  who  was  spending  the  day  with  her, 
sat  at  a  window  crotcheting,  and  playing  propriety,  with 
Mrs.  Hill  and  Mrs.  Hill's  niece,  Miss  Clowrie.  Somehow 
this  yonng  lady  was  vei-y  fond  of  dropping  in  to  see  lier 
.vaunt,  and  staying  for  dinner,  and  often  all  night.  The 
heiress  sat  at  the  piano,  playing  some  exquisite  "song 
without  words,"  when  a  servant  entered  and  ushered  in 
Miss  Blair.  The  officers,  who  had  been  there  some  time, 
took  tlieir  departure,  and  Laura  burst  out  into  thanks- 
giving. 

"  2*Jow,  thank  goodness !  they're  gone.  Run  up  and 
get  your. hat,  Oily,  and  come  down  to  see  the  boat  come 
in." 

"  I  don't  care  about  seeing  the  boat  come  in,"  said  the 
heiress,  lazily,  lying  back  in  a  fauteuil.  "  I  feel  comfort- 
able where  I  am." 

"  But  you  must  come,  I  tell  you !"  cried  Laura,  "  there's 
a  lot  of  delegates  coming  from  somewhere,  about  some- 
thing, and  everybody  will  be  there,  and  I  want  to  see 
them." 

Miss  Henderson  laughed  at  this  lucid  explanation. 

"  1  shan't  go,"  she  said. 

Miss  Blair  changed  from  the  imperative  mood  to  the 
potential,  exhorting,  entreating.. 

"Now,  Oily,  don't  be  hateful,  but  go  and  put  your 
things  on,  like  a  darling.  1  am  just  dying  to  go,  and  I 
can't  go  without  you,  so  do  come,  there's  a  dear  !" 

"  But  don't  you  see  I  have  company,"  laughed  Olive ; 
"  I  can't  be  rude  ;  I  can't  leave  them." 

"  Nonsense,  Olive,  my  love,"  cut  in  Mrs.  Darcy  ;  "you 
don't  call  Catty  and  1  stran^ei-s,  1  hope.  Go  down  to  the 
wharf;  the  sea-breeze  will  sharpen  your  appetite  for 
dinner." 

"  A  veiy  romantic  reason,  certainly,"  said  Olive,  saun- 
tering out  of  the  room,  however.  "  1  ou  had  better  come 
too.  Miss  Clowrie." 

This  was  said  for  politeness'  sake,  for  the  attorney's 
daughter  was  no  favorite  with  the  heiress.     Catty,  only 


283  TEE    EiaCHANTREaS. 

tcK)  glad  to  be  seen  in  public  with  Miss  Henderson,  accept- 
ed at  once,  and  went  np  to  dress. 

"  Is  it  true,  Laura,"  asked  Mrs.  Darcy,  "  that  Miss  Rose 
canie  back  last  night  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura,  "  she  called  this  morning,  and  1 
was  so  glad  to  see  her.  She  looks  extremely  well.  Eng- 
land must  have  agreed  with  her." 

"  Where  is  she  stopping  ?     I  should  like  to  see  her." 

"At House,  with  Mrs.  and  Major  Wheatly.    She 

told  me  she  would  be  at  the  boat  this  afternoon,  when  .slie 
would  see  all  the  old  faces,  if  Speckport  had  not  changed 
greatly  in  her  absence." 

"  Tell  her  to  call  and  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  Darcy ;  "I 
always  liked  Miss  Rose.  1  think  she  has  the  sweetest  face 
1  ever  saw." 

"  Now,  then,  Laura,"  exclaimed  Olive,  appearing  at 
the  door  with  Catty,  "  I  am  ready,  and  I  hear  the  steamer 
blowing." 

The  three  young  ladies  walked  down  to  the  wharf, 
which,  as  usual,  was  crowded.  One  of  the  tii-st  persons 
they  met  was  Yal  Blake,  watching  the  passengei-s,  who 
were  beginning  to  come  up  the  floats,  running  the  gauntlet 
of  all  eyes.  He  was  telling  them  something  about  Tom 
Oaks,  who  had  started  off  up  the  country,  when  he 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  what  he  was  saying  with  a  sort 
of  shout  of  astonishment,  and  stared  at  a  gentleman  com- 
ing up  the  floats,  with  a  valise  in  one  hand,  and  an  over- 
coat across  his  arm. 

'*  Now,  of  all  the  people  coming  and  going  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,"  cried  out  Mr.  Blake,  in  his  amazement, 
"  wluitevor  has  sent  Paul  Wyndham  to  Speckport  V 

The  next  instant  he  was  off,  Hinging  the  crowd  right 
and  left  out  of  his  way,  and  arresting  the  traveler  with  a 
bledgfj-hammer  tap  on  the  shoulder.  The  girls  laughingly 
watched  him,  as  he  shook  the  stranger's  hand  as  vigorous- 
ly as  if  he  meant  to  wrench  it  off,  crying  out  in  a  voice 
that  everybody  heard :  "  Why,  Wyndham,  old  fellow  I 
what  the  deuce  drove  you  here  f^ 

Mr.  Wyndham  smiled  quietly  at  his  impetuous  fiiend, 
and  walked  away  with  him  to  a  cab,  which  they  both  en- 


THE    DOUBLE     COMPACT.  283 

tered,  and  Olive  Henderson,  still  laughing  at  Mr.  Blake, 
;ooked  carelessly  after  tiieni,  and  never  dreamed  that  she 
iiad  met  her  fate.  No ;  who  ever  does  dream  it,  when 
they  meet  that  fat  3  fii-st ! 

So  Paul  Wyndham  passed  Olive  Henderson,  and  the 
curtain  of  the  future  slii-onded  the  web  of  life  destiny  was 
weaving.  She  forgot  him  as  soon  as  seen,  and  turned  to 
Laura,  who  was  speaking  animatedly. 

"  Look,  Oily  !  there's  the  Miss  liose  you  have  Iieurd 
me  speaking  of  so  often — that  little  girl  with  the  bluck 
silk  dress  and  mantle,  and  black  straw  hat,  talking  to  Miss 
Blake.  Look !  hasn't  she  the  sweetest  face !  I'll  call  her 
over."  * 

The  crowd  of  men,  women  and  children,  thronging 
the  wharf  and  floats,  were  strangely  startled  a  moment 
after,  and  every  eye  turned  in  one  direction.  There  had 
been  a  long,  wild,  woman's  shriek,  and  some  one  had  reeled 
and  fallen  to  the  ground  like  a  log.  There  was  a  rushing 
and  swaying,  and  startled  talking  among  the  people  ;  and 
Dr.  Leach,  coming  along,  took  the  Kev.  Augustus  Tod  by 
the  button,  and  wanted  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

."Miss  Olive  Llenderson  had  fainted,"  the  Rev.  Augus- 
tus said,  with  a  startled  face.  "  She  had  been  standing  on 
the  wharf,  apparently  quite  well,  only  a  second  before, 
when  she  had  suddenly  screamed  out  and  fallen  down  in 
a  fainting-fit.    It  was  really  quite  shocking." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  DOUBLE  COMPACT. 


LIVE  HENDERSON  lay  on  a  sofa  in  her  bed- 
J     room,  her  face  half  buried  among  the  pillows, 
her  cloud  of  tarblack  hair  all  loose  and  dis- 
ordered, falling  about  her,  and  still   wearing 
the  out-door  dress  of  yesterday.    Bright  streal^ 
of  crimson  glory,  in  the  dull  dawn  sky,  heralded  the  lising 


284  THE    DOUBLE    COMPACT. 

of  another  sun,  of  another  day  to  the  restless,  feverish 
little  planet  below.  Dressed  in  that  uncomfortable  attire 
for  repose,  Olive  Henderson,  while  the  red  morning  broke, 
lay  there  and  slept.  Stufi !  It  was  more  stupor  than 
sleep,  and  she  had  only  sank  into  it  half  an  hour  before, 
from  sheer  physical  exhaustion.  Those  in  the  cottage  had 
been  disturbed  all  night  long,  by  the  sound  of  restless 
footsteps  pacing  up  and  down  the  chamber  where  she  now 
lay,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  ceaselessly,  the  live-long 
night.  Vvhen  tliey  had  lifted  her  up,  and  earned  her 
home  in  that  death-faint,  and  Dr.  Leach  had  brought  her 
to,  Iier  hrst  act  had  been  to  turn  every  soul  of  them  out 
of  her  rooQi,  Laura  Blair  included,  to  lock  the  door,  and 
remain  there  alone  by  herself,  ever  since.  Everybody 
wondered  ;  Catty  Clowrie,  most  of  all,  and  tender-hearted 
Laura  cried.  That  sympathizing  confidante  had  gone  to 
the  locked  door,  and  humbly  and  lovingly  entreated  "  Oily  " 
to  let  her  in ;  bat  Oily  tui'ned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  her  en- 
treaties, and  never  even  condescended  to  reply.  Mrs. 
Hill  felt  deeply  on  the  subject  of  refreshments — if  hei 
young  lady  would  but  partake  of  some  weak  tea  and  dry 
toast,  or  even  water-gruel,  and  go  to  bed  comfortable,  and 
sleep  it  off,  she  would  be  all  right  to-morrow ;  but  to  shut 
herself  up,  and  her  friends  out,  was  enough  to  give  her 
her  death.  Catty  Clowrie  said  very  little,  but  she  thought 
a  good  deal.  She  liad  remained  all  night  at  the  cottage, 
and  had  listened  to  that  troubled  footstep,  and  had  mused 
darkly,  instead  of  sleeping.  At  day-da^vn  the  restless 
pacing  had  ceased,  and  Oiive  Henderson  lay  sleeping,  a 
deep,  stupor-like  sleep.  Her  face,  lying  among  the  pil- 
lows, contrasting  \vith  her  black  hair,  looked  ghastly 
white  in  the  pale  dawn,  and  her  brows  were  drawn,  and 
her  position  strangely  wretched  and  unnatural. 

Mi"3.  Hill  came  to  the  door  several  times  and  tried  to 
get  in,  but  in  vain.  Her  feeble  knocks  failed  to  awake 
her  young  mistress  from  that  deep  sleep,  and  the  sun  was 
liigli  in  the  purple  arch  outside,  before  the  dark  eyes  slow- 
ly opened  to  this  mortal  life  again.  She  sat  up  feeling 
stiff,  and  cold,  and  cramped,  and  unrefreshed,  and  put  the 
bladi  cloud  of  hair  away  from  her  face,  while  memory 


TEE    DOUBLE    COMPACT.  285 

stepped  back  to  its  post.  "With  something  like  a  groan 
she  dropped  licr  face  once  more  among  the  pillows,  but 
this  time  not  to  sleep.  She  lay  so  still  for  nearly  half  an 
hour,  that  not  a  hair  of  her  head  moved,  thinking,  think- 
ing, thinking..  A  terrible  fear  came  upon  iier,  a  horrible 
danger  threatened  her,  but  she  was  not  one  easily  to  yield 
to  despair.  She  would  battle  with  the  rising  tide,  battle 
fiercely  to  the  last,  and  if  the  black  waves  engulfed  her  at 
the  end,  she  would  die  waging  war  against  relentless  doom, 
to  the  close. 

Olive  Henderson  rose  up,  twisted  her  disordered  tresses 
away  from  her  face,  searched  for  her  ink  and  paper,  and 
sat  down  to  a  little  rosewood  desk,  to  write.  It  was  very 
short,  the  note  she  rapidly  scrawled,  but  the  whole  pas- 
sionate heart  of  the  girl  was  in  it. 

"  For  God'?  sake  come  to  me  !"  (this  abrupt  note  be- 
gan) "  every  second  is  an  age  of  agony  till  I  see  you.  I 
thought  you  were  dead — as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  did, 
or  I  should  never  have  come  here !  By  the  memory  of 
all  the  happy  days  we  have  spent  together,  by  the  memory 
of  your  dead  father,  I  conjure  you  be  silent,  and  come  to 
me  at  once !  H." 

The  note  had  neither  date,  address,  nor  signature,  save 
that  one  capital  letter,  but  when  it  was  folded  and  in  the 

envelope,  she  wrote  the  address: — "Miss  W.  liose, 

House,  Queen  Street,  Speckport." 

Then,  rising,  she  exchanged  the  crumpled  robe  in 
wliich  she  had  slept  for  one  of  plain  black  silk,  hastily 
thrust  her  hair  loose  into  a  chenille  net,  put  on  a  lon^ 
black  silk  mantle,  a  bonnet  and  thick  brown  vail,  placed 
the  letter  in  her  pocket,  and  went  down  stairs.  There 
w.is  no  possibility  of  leaving  the  house  unseen  ;  Mrs.  Hill 
heiW'd  her  ojjening  the  front  door  and  came  out  of  the 
diniu/r-room.  Her  eyes  opened  like  full  moons  at  the 
sight  of  the  street  costume,  and  the  young  lady's  white, 
resolute  face. 

"  My  patience,  Miss  Olive,  you're  never  going  out  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Henderson  said,  constraining  herself  to 


288  TEE    DOUBLE     COMPACT. 

speak  quietly.  "  My  head  aches,  and  I  think  a  walk  in 
the  air  will  do  it  good.     I  will  be  back  drectly." 

"  But,  do  take  something  before  you  go.  Some  tea, 
now,  and  a  little  bit  of  toast." 

"  No,  no !  not  any,  thank  you,  until  I  come  back." 

She  was  gone  even  while  she  spoke;  the  thick  vail 
drawn  over  her  face,  her  parasol  up,  screening  her  elffcctu- 
ally.  Catty  Clowrie,  watching  her  from  the  window, 
would  have  given  considerable  to  follow  her,  and  see  where 
she  went.  She  had  little  faith  in  that  walk  being  taken 
for  the  sake  of  walking ;  some  covert  meaning  lay  hidden 
beneath. 

"  I  declare  to  you.  Catty,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hill,  coming 
back,  "  she  gave  me  quite  a  turn !  She  was  as  white  as  a 
ghost,  and  those  big  black  eyes  of  hers  looked  bigger  and 
blacker  than  ever.  She  is  turning  bilious,  that's  what 
she's  doing." 

Miss  Henderson  walked  to  Queen  Street  by  the  most 
retired  streets,  and  passed  before  the  hotel,  where  Major 
and  Mrs.  Wheatly  boarded.  She  had  some  idea  of  put- 
ting the  letter  in  the  post-office  when  she  started,  but  in 
that  case  Miss  Ilose  would  not  receive  it  until  evening,  and 
how  could  she  wait  all  that  time,  eating  out  her  heart  with 
mad  impatience?  There  was  a  man  standing  in  the  door- 
way of  the  ladies'  entrance,  a  waiter,  and  quite  alone. 
With  her  vail  closely  drawn  over  her  face.  Miss  Henderson 
a])proaclied  him,  speaking  in  a  low  voice : 

"  There  is  a  young  lady — a  governess,  called  Miss  Rose, 
stopping  here — is  there  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Is  shei  in  now  ?" 

"  Yes'm." 

"  AVill  you  please  give  her  this  letter !  give  it  into  her 
own  hand,  and^t  once!" 

She  gave  him  the  letter,  and  a  fee  that  made  him  stare, 
and  was  gone.  The  m.an  did  not  know  her,  and  Olive 
reached  home  without  onee  meeting  any  one  who  recog- 
nized her. 

Miss  Catty  Clowrie  did  not  leave  the  cottage  all  that 
day.     She  was  sewing  for  Mrs.  Hill ;  and,  seated  at  the 


THE    DOUBLE     COMPACT.  287 

dining-room  window,  she  Avatcbed  Miss  Iloudei'^on  fur- 
tively, but  incessuutlj,  nnderlier  white  eyelashes.  That 
young  lady  seemed  possessed  of  the  very  spirit  of  restless- 
ness, since  lier  return  from  her  walk.  It  had  not  done 
her  nmcli  good,  apparently,  for  it  had  neither  brought 
back  color  nor  appetite ;  and  she  wandered  from  room  to 
room,  and  .up-stairs  and  down-stairs,  with  a  miserable  fe- 
verish restlessness,  that  raado  one  fidgety  to  look  at  her. 
And  all  the  time  in  her  dark  colorless  face  there  was  only 
one  expression,  one  of  jDassionate,  impatient  waiting.  Wait- 
ing, waiting,  waiting!  For  what?  Catty  Clowrie's  green- 
ish-gray eyes  read  the  look  aright,  but  for  what  was  she 
waiting  ? 

"  I'll  find  it  out,  yet,"  Miss  Clowrie  said,  inwardly. 
"  She  is  a  very  fine  lady,  this  Miss  Olive  Henderson,  but 
there  is  an  old  adage  about  *  All  that  glitters  is  not  gold.' 
I'll  wait  and  see.'' 

There  were  a  great  many  callers  in  the  course  of  the 
morning,  but  Miss  Henderson  was  too  indisposed  to  see 
any  of  ^hem.  Even  Miss  Blair  was  sent  away  with  this 
answer,  when  she  came ;  but  Miss  Henderson  had  left 
word,  Mrs.  Hill  said,  that  she  would  be  glad  to  see  Miss 
Lam-a  tomorrow.  Miss  Heudei-son  hei-self,  walking  up 
and  down  t'le  drawing-rcom,  heard  the  message  given, 
and  the  door  closed  on  her  friend,  and  then  tui-ned  to  go 
up-stairs.  She  stopped  to  say  a  word  to  her  housekeeper 
as  she  did  so. 

"  There  is  a  person  to  call  to-day,  Mrs.  Hill,"  she  said, 
not  looking  at  the  pilot's  widow,  "  and  you  may  send  her 
up  to  my  room  when  she  comes.  It  is  Miss  Rose,  Mrs. 
i\iajor  Wheatly's  governess!" 

Her  foot  was  on  the  carpeted  stair  as  she  said  this,  and 
j  he  mn  up  without  giving  her  housekeeper  time  to  rej^ly. 
(Jatty  Clowrie,  industriously  sewing  away,  listened,  and 
compressed  her  thin  lips, 

"  Miss  Rose  coming  to  see  her,  and  admitted  to  a  pri- 
vate interview,  when  every  one  else  is  excluded !  lira — 
m — m !  That  is  rather  odd  ;  and  Miss  Rose  is  a  stranger 
to  her — or  is  supposed  to  be !  I  wonder  why  she  fainted 
at  sight  of  Miss  Rose,  on  the  wharf,  yesterday,  and  why 


288  TEE    DOUBLE     COMPACT. 

Mi88  Rose's  face  turned  to  pale  amazement  at  si^lit  of  her. 
She  did  not  ask  any  questions,  I  noticed  ;  but  Miss  Rose 
was  always  discreet ;  and  no  one  observed  her  but  myself, 
in  the  hubbub.    There  is  something  odd  about  all  this  !"    , 

She  threaded  her  needle  afresh,  and  went  on  witli  her 
sewing,  with  the  patient  perseverance  of  all  such  phleg- 
matic mortals.  Mrs.  Hill  came  in,  wondering  what  Miss 
Henderson  could  possibly  want  of  Miss  Rose,  but  her  niece 
could  throw  no  light  on  the  subject. 

"  Perhaps  she  wants  a  companion,"  Miss  Clowric  re- 
marked ;  "  tine  ladies  like  Miss  Henderson  are  full  of  freaks, 
and  perhaps  slie  wants  some  one  to  play  and  sing  and  read 
to  her,  when  she  feels  too  lazy  to  do  it  herself." 

Catty  Clowrie  had  read  a  good  many  novels  in  her 
life,  full  of  all  sorts  of  mysteries,  and  seci*et  crimes,  and 
wicked  concealments,  and  conspiracies — very  romantic  and 
unlike  every  day-life — but  still  liable  to  happen.  She  had 
never  had  the  faintest  shadow  of  romance,  to  cover  rosily 
her  own  drab-hued  life — no  secret  or  mystery  of  any  sort 
to  happen  to  herself,  or  any  of  the  people  among  whom 
she  mingled.  The  most  romantic  thing  that  had  ever  oc- 
curred within  her  pei-sonal  knowledge  was  the  fact  of  this 
new  heiress,  this  Olive  Henderson,  rising  from  the  offal 
of  New  York,  from  the  most  abject  poverty,  to  sudden 
and  great  wealth. 

Miss  Clowric  sat  until  three  o'clock,  sewing  at  the  din- 
ing-room window.  Luncheon-hour  was  two,  but  Miss 
Henderson  would  not  descend,  and  asked  to  have  a  cup  of 
strong  tea  sent  up,  so  Mrs.  Hill  and  her  niece  partool:  of 
that  repast  alone.  As  the  clock  was  striking  three,  a  young 
lady,  dressed  in  half-mourning,  came  down  the  street  and 
rang  the  door-bell ;  and  Catty,  dropping  her  work,  ran  to 
open  it,  and  embrace  with  effusion  the  visitor.  She  had 
not  spoken  to  Miss  Rose  before  since  her  return,  and  kissed 
her  now,  as  though  she  were  really  glad  to  see  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  arc  back  again,  dear  Miss  Rose !" 
the  young  lady  cried,  holding  both  Miss  Rose's  hands  in 
hers ;  "  you  cannot  think  how  much  we  have  all  missed 
/you  since  you  went  away !" 

Now,  it  was  rather  unfortunate  for  Miss  Clowrie,  but 


TEB.    DOUBLE    COMPAOT.  289 

nature,  who  will  always  persist  in  being  absurdly  true  to 
herself,  had  given  an  insincere  look  to  the  thin,  wide 
month,  and  a  false  ghminer  to  the  greenish-gray  eyes,  and 
a  clammy,  limp  moistness  to  the  cold  hand,  that  made  you 
feel  as  if  you  had  got  hold  of  a  dead  fish,  and  wished  to 
drop  it  again  as  soon  as  possible.  Miss  Eose  had  taken  an 
instinctive  aversion  to  Miss  Clowrie  the  first  time  she  had 
seen  her,  and  had  never  been  quite  able  to  get  over  it 
since,  though  she  had  conscientiously  tried ;  but  she  never 
betrayed  it,  and  smiled  now  in  her  own  gentle  smile,  and 
thanked  Miss  Clowrie  in  her  own  sweet  voice.  She  turned 
to  Mrs.  Hill,  though,  when  that  lady  appeared,  with  a  far 
difiereut  feeling,  and  returned  the  kiss  that  motherly  old 
creature  iDcstowed  upon  her. 

"  It  does  my  heart  good  to  see  you  again,  Miss  Rose," 
the  housekeeper  said.  "  I  haven't  forgotten  all  you  did 
for  me  last  year  when  poor,  dear  Hill  was  lost,  going  after 
that  horrid  ship.  You  can't  think  how  glad  I  was  when 
I  heard  you  were  come  l>ack." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Hill,"  tlie  governess  said.  "  It  is 
worth  while  going  away  for  the  sake  of  such  a  welcome 
back.  Is  Miss — "  she  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went 
on,  with  a  sudden  flush  lighting  her  face ;  "  is  Mies  Hen- 
dereon  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear;  I  will  go  and  tell  her  you  are  here." 

The  housekeeper  went  lip-stairs,  but  reappeared  almost 
immediately. 

'*  You  are  to  go  up-stairs,  my  dear,"  she  said  ;  "  Miss 
Henderson  is  not  very  well,  and  will  see  you  in  her  own 
room." 

Miss  Kose  ascended  the  stairs,  entered  the  chamber  of 
the  heiress,  and  Catty  heard  the  door  closed  and  locked 
after  her.  As  Mrs.  Hill  re-entered  the  dining-room,  she 
found  her  gathering  up  her  work. 

"  I  left  the  yokes  and  wi'istbands  in  your  room,  aunt," 
she  explained.  "  I  must  go  after  them,  and  I'll  just  go 
up  and  finish  this  nightgown  there." 

There  were  four  rooms  up-stairs,  with  a  hall  inmning 
between  each  two.     The  two  on  the  left  were  occupied 
by  Miss  Henderson,  one  being  her  bedroom,  the  other  a 
13 


290  THE    DOUBLE     COMPACT. 

batli-room.  Mrs.  Hill  had  the  room  opposite  the  heiress, 
the  other  being  used  by  Rosie,  the  chambermaid. 

Miss  Clowrie  (one  hates  to  tell  it,  but  what  is  to  bo 
done  ?)  went  deliberately  to  Miss  Hendereoa's  door,  and 
applied  first  her  eye,  then  her  ear,  to  the  key-hole.  Ap- 
plying her  eye,  she  distinctly  beheld  Miss  Olive  Hender- 
son, the  heiress  of  Redmon,  the  proudest  woman  she  had 
ever  known,  down  upon  her  knees,  before  Miss  E.osc,  the 
governess — the  ex-school-mistress ;  holding  up  her  closed 
hands,  in  wild  supplication,  her  face  like  the  face  of  a 
corpse,  and  all  her  black  hair  tumbled  and  falhng  about  her. 

To  say  that  Miss  Catty  Clowrie  was  satislied  by  this 
sight,  would  be  doing  no  sort  of  justice  to  the  subject. 
The  fii-st  words  she  caught  were  not  likely  to  lessen  hei 
astonishment — wild,  strange  words. 

"  I  thought  you  were  dead  !  I  thought  you  wenj 
dead !"  in  a  passion  of  consternation,  that  seemed  to  blot 
out  every  thouglit  of  prudence.  "  I  thought  you  were 
dead !  As  Heaven  hears  me,  I  thought  you  were  dead, 
or  I  never  would  have  done  it." 

Miss  Hose  was  standing  with  her  back  to  the  door,  and 
the  eavesdropper  saw  her  trying  to  raise  the  heiress  up. 

"  Get  up,  Hai'riet,"  she  distinctly  heard  her  say, 
though  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  1  cannot  bear  to  see 
you  like  this ;  and  do  not  speak  so  loud — some  one  may 
near  you." 

If  they  had  only  known  of  the  pale  listener  at  the 
door,  hushing  her  very  heart-beating  to  hear  the  Ijetter. 
But  Miss  Henderson  would  not  rise ;  she  only  knelt  there, 
wliite  and  wild,  and  holding  up  her  clasped  hands. 

"  I  will  never  get  up,"  she  passionately  cried.  "  I 
will  never  rise  out  of  this  until  you  promise  to  keep  my 
secret.  It  is  not  as  a  favor,  it  is  as  a  right  I  demand  it  I 
'  Your  father  robbed  my  mother  and  me.  But  for  him  I 
would  have  never  known  poverty  and  misery — and  God 
only  knows  the  misery  that  has  been  mine.  But  for  him, 
I  should  never  have  known  what  it  is  to  suiler  from  cold 
and  hunger,  and  misery  and  insult ;  but  for  him  I  would 
have  been  rich  to-day  ;  but  for  him  my  mother  might  still 
be  alive  and  happy.     He  ruined  us,  and  broke  her  heart, 


THE    DOUBLE     COUP  ACT.  291 

and  I  tell  you  it  is  only  justice  I  ask !  I  should  never 
have  come  here  had  I  not  thought  you  dead ;  but  now 
that  I  have  come,  tliat  wealth  and  comfort  have  been 
mine  once  more,  I  will  not  go.  I  will  not,  I  tell  you ! 
I  will  die  before  I  yield,  and  go  back  to  that  liorrible 
'ife,  and  may  my  deatii  rest  forever  on  your  soul !" 

Catty  Clowrie,  crouching  at  the  door,  tm-ned  as  cold 
as  death,  listening  to  these  dreadful  words.  Was  she 
awake — was  she  dreaming  ?  Was  this  Olive  Henderson 
— the  proud,  the  beautiful,  the  queenly  heiress — this  mad 
creature,  uttering  those  passionate,  despairing  words.  She 
could  not  see  into  the  room,  her  ear  was  at  the  keyhole — 
strained  to  a  tension  that  was  painful,  so  absorbed  was  she 
in  listening.  But  at  this  very  instant  her  strained  hear- 
ing caught  another  sound — Rosie,  the  chambermaid,  com- 
ing along  the  lower  hall,  and  up-stairs.  Swift  as  a  flash, 
Catty  Clowrie  sprang  up,  and  darted  into  her  aunt's  room. 
She  did  not  dare  to  close  the  door,  lost  the  girl  should 
hear  her,  and  she  set  her  teeth  with  anger  and  suppressed 
fury  at  the  disappointment. 

Rosie  had  come  up  to  make  her  bed,  and  set  her  room 
to  rights,  and  was  in  no  wise  disposed  to  hurry  over  it. 
She  sang  at  her  work ;  but  the  pale-faced  attorney's 
daughter  in  the  next  room,  furious  with  disappointment, 
could  have  seen  her  choked  at  the  moment  with  the  great- 
est pleasure.  Half  an  hour  passed — would  the  girl  never 
go?  Yes — yes,  there  was  Mrs.  Hill,  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  calling  her,  and  Rosie  ran  down.  Quick  as  she  had 
left  it.  Catty  was  back  at  her  post,  airing  her  eye  at  the 
keyhole  once  more. 

The  scene  she  beheld  was  not  quite  so  tragic  this  time. 
The  heiress  aiid  the  governess  were  seated  opposite  one 
another,  an  inlaid  table  between  them.  There  was  pa])er 
and  ink  on  the  table  ;  Misa  Henderson  held  a  pen  in  her 
hand,  as  if  about  to  write,  and  IMiss  Rose  Wiis  speaking. 
Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low,  as  usual ;  but  it  had  a  tirm 
cadence,  that  showed  she  was  gravely  in  earnest  now. 

"  You  must  write  down  these  conditions,  Harriet,'' 
she  was  saying,  "  to  make  matters  sure  ;  but  no  one  shall 
ever  see  the  papers,  and  I  pledge  you  my  solemn  vord, 


293  TUE    DOUBLE     COMPACT. 

your  secret  shall  be  kept  inviolable.  Heaven  knows  I 
have  done  all  I  conld  to  atone  for  mj  dead  father's  acts, 
and  I  will  continue  to  do  it' to  the  end.  He  wronged 
your  mother  and  you,  I  know,  and  I  am  thankful  it  is  in 
my  power  to  do  reparation.  I  ask  nothing  for  myself — 
but  others  have  rights  as  well  as  you,  Hai-riet,  and  as 
sacred.  Two  hundred  pounds  will  pay  all  the  remaining 
debts  of  my  father  now.  You  must  give  me  that.  And 
you  must  write  down  there  a  promise  to  pay  Mrs.  Marsh 
one  himdred  pounds  a  year  annuity,  as  long  as  she  lives. 
Her  daughter  should  have  had  it  all,  Harriet,  and  neither 
you  nor  1 ;  and  the  least  you  can  do,  in  justice,  is  to  pro- 
vide for  her.     You  will  do  this  V 

"  Yes— yes,"  Miss  Henderson  cried  ;  "  that  is  not 
much  to  do !  I  want  to  do  more.  I  want  you  to  share 
with  me.  Oily." 

"  Ko,"  said  Miss  Rose,  "  you  may  keep  it  all.  I  have 
as  much  as  I  want,  and  I  am  very  well  contented.  1  have 
no  desire  for  wealth.  I  should  hardly  know  what  to  do 
with  it  if  I  had  possessed  it." 

"  Bat  you, will  come  and  live  with  me,"  Miss  Hender- 
son said,  in  a  voice  strangely  subdued;  "come  and  live 
with  me,  and  let  us  share  it  together,  as  sisters  should." 

That  detestable  housemaid  again !  If  Catty  Clowrie 
had  been  a  man,  she  might  have  indulged  in  the  manly 
relief  of  swearing,  as  she  sprang  up  a  second  time,  and 
fled  into  Mi's.  Hill's  room.  This  time,  Rosie  was  not 
called  away,  and  she  sat  for  nearly  an  hour,  singing,  at  her 
chamber  window,  and  mending  her  stockings.  (Jatty 
Clowi-ie,  on  fire  with  impotent  fury,  had  to  stay  where 
she  was. 

Staying  there,  she  saw  Miss  Henderson's  door  opened 
at  last;  and,  peeping  cautiously  out,  saw  the  two  go 
down-stairs  together.  Miss  Rose  looked  as  if  she  had 
been  crying,  and  her  face  was  very  pale,  but  the  tierec 
crimson  of  excitement  burned  on  the  dark  cheeks  anil 
flamed  in  the  black  eyes  of  Miss  Henderson.  It  was  the 
heiress  who  let  Miss  Rose  out,  and  then  she  came  back  to 
her  room,  and  resumed  the  old  trick  of  walking  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  as  on  the  preceding  night. 


THE    DOUBLE     COMPACT.  298 

Cattj  wondered  if  she  would  never  be  tired.  It  was 
all  tnie,  then;  and  there  was -a  dark  secret  and  mystery 
in  Olive  Hendei-son's  life.  "Olive!"  Was  that  her 
name,  and  if  so,  why  had  Miss  Rose  called  her  "  Harriet." 
And  if  the  governess's  name  was  Winnie,  why  did  the 
heiress  call  her  "  Oily  ?" 

Catty  Clowrie  sat  thinking  while  the  April  day  faded 
into  misty  twilight,  and  the  cold  evening  star  glimmered 
down  on  the  sea.  She  sat  there  thinking  while  the  sun 
went  low,  and  dipped  into  the  bay,  and  out  of  sight.  She 
sat  thinking  while  the  last  little  pink  cloud  of  the  sunset 

{)aled  to  dull  gray,  and  the  round  white  moon  came  up, 
ike  a  shining  shield.  She  sat  there  thinking  till  the  din- 
ner-bell rang,  and  she  remembered  she  was  cold  and  hun- 
gry, and  went  slowly  down-stairs — still  thinking. 

To  her  surprise,  for  she  had  been  too  absorbed  to  hear 
her  come  out  of  her  room.  Miss  Henderson  was  there, 
beautifully  dressed,  and  in  high  spirits.  She  had  such  a 
passion  for  luxury  and  costly  dress,  th^'s  young  lady,  that 
she  would  array  hereelf  in  velvets  and  brocades,  even 
though  there  were  none  to  admire  her  but  her  own  servants. 

On  this  evening,  she  had  dressed  herself  in  white, 
with  ornaments  of  gold  and  coral  in  her  black  braids, 
broad  gold  bracelets  on  her  superb  arms,  and  a  cluster  of 
scarlet  liowers  on  her  breast.  She  looked  so  beautiful 
with  that  lire  in  her  eyes,  that  flush  on  her  cheek,  that 
brilliant  smile  lighting  up  her  gypsy  face,  that  Mrs.  Hill 
and  Catty  were  absolutely  dazzled.  She  laughed — a  clear, 
ringing  laugh — at  Mrs.  Hill's  profuse  congratulations  on 
her  magical  recovery. 

"  You  dear  old  Mi*s.  Hill !"  she  said,  "  when  you  are 
better  used  to  me,  yoxn  will  cease  to  wonder  at  my  eccen- 
tricities !  It  is  a  woman's  privilege  to  change  her  mind 
sixty  times  an  hour,  if  she  chooses — and  I  choose  to  assert 
all  the  privileges  of  my  sex !" 

She  rose  from  the  table  as  she  spoke,  still  laughing, 
and  wont  into  the  drawing-room.  The  gas  buraed  low,  but 
she  turned  it  up  to  its  full  flare,  and,  opening  the  piano, 
rattled  off  a  stormy  polka.  She  twirled  round  presently, 
and  called  out : 


294  TEE    DOUBLE    COMPAOT. 

"Mrs.  HiU!" 

Mrs.  Hill  came  in. 

"  Tell  Sam  to  go  up  to  Miss  Blair's,  and  fetch  her 
j  here.  Let  him  tell  her  I  feel  quite  well  again,  and  want 
her  to  spend  the  evening,  if  she  is  not  engaged.  He  can 
take  the  gig,  and  tell  him  to  make  haste,  Mrs.  Hill." 

Mi"S.  Hill  departed  on  her  errand,  and  Miss  Hender- 
'  son's  jeweled  fingers  were  flying  over  the  pohshed  keys 
once  more.  Presently  she  twirled  around  again,  and 
called  out :  "  Miss  Clowrie." 

"  I  wish  Laura  would  come !"  Miss  Henderson  said, 
pulling  out  her  watch,  "  and  I  wish  she  would  fetch  a 
dozen  people  with  her.  I  feel  just  in  the  humor  for  a 
ball  to-night." 

She  talked  to  Catty  Clowrie  vivaciously,  and  to  Mrs. 
Hill,  because  she  was  just  in  the  mood  for  talking,  and 
rattled  olf  brilliant  sonatas  between  whiles.  But  she  was 
impatient  for  Laura's  coming,  and  kept  jerking  out  her 
watch  every  five  minutes,  to  look  at  the  hour. 

Miss  Blair  made  her  appearance  at  last,  and  not  alone. 
There  was  a  gentleman  in  the  background,  but  Miss  B. 
rushed  with  such  a  frantic  little  scream  of  delight  into  the 
arms  of  her  "  dear,  darling  Oily,"  and  so  hugged  and 
kissed  her,  that,  for  the  first  moment  or  two,  it  was  not 
very  easy  to  see  who  it  was.  Extricating  herself,  laughing 
and  breathless,  from  the  gushing  Miss  Blair,  Olive  looked 
at  her  companion,  and  saw  the  amused  and  handsome  face 
of  Captain  Cavendish. 

"I  hope  I  am  not  an  intruder,"  that  young  officer  said, 
coming  forward,  "but  being  at  Mr.  Blair's  when  your 
message  anived,  and  hearing  you  were  well  again,  I  could 
not  forbear  the  pleasure  of  congratulating  you.  The 
Piincess  of  Speckport  can  be  ill  dispensed  with  by  her 
adoring  subjects." 

Some  one  of  Miss  Henderson's  innumerable  admirers 
had  dubbed  her  "  Princess  of  Speckport,"  and  the  title  was 
not  out  of  place.  She  laughed  at  his  gallant  speech,  and 
held  out  her  hand  with  frank  grace. 

"My  friends  are  always  welcome,"  she. said,  and  here 
ehe  was  interrupted  by  a  postman's  knock  at  the  door. 


TEE    DOUBLE     COMPACT.  295 

"  Dear  me !  who  can  this  be  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  looking 
n{>  over  her  spectacles,  as  Rosie  opened  the  door. 

It  proved  to  be  Mr,  Val  Blake,  That  gentleman  being 
very  busy  all  day,  had  found  no  time  to  inquire  for  Miss 
Ilciidcrson,  until  after  tea,  when,  strolling  out,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  for  liis  evening  constitutional,  he  had 
stepped  around  to  ask  Mrs.  Hill.  Miss  Henderson  appeared 
in  person  to  answer  his  friendly  inquiries,  and  Mr.  Blake 
came  in,  nothing  loth,  and  joined  the  party. 

Some  one  proposed  cards,  after  a  while;  and  Mr. 
Blake,  and  Miss  Blair,  and  Mrs.  Hill,  and  Miss  Clowrie, 
gathered  I'ound  a  pretty  little  card-table,  but  Miss  Hen- 
derson retained  her  seat  at  the  piano,  singing,  and  playing 
operatic  overtimes.  Captain  Cavdndish  stood  beside  her, 
turning  over  her  music,  and  looking  down  into  the  spark- 
ling, beautiful  face,  with  passionately  loving  eyes.  For 
the  spell  of  the  sorceress  burdened  him  more  tliis  night 
than  ever  before,  and  the  man's  heart  Wiis  going  in  great 
plunges  agiiinst  his  side.  He  almost  fancied  she  must 
hear  its  tumultuous  beating,  as  she  sat  there  in  her  beauty 
antl  her  pride,  the  red  gold  gleaming  in  her  black  braids 
and  on  her  brown  arms.  It  had  always  been  so  easy  before 
for  him  to  say  what  was  choking  lum  now,  and  he  had 
said  it  often  enougli,  goodness  knows,  for  the  lesson  to  be 
easy.  But  there  was  this  difference — he  Joved  this  black- 
eyed  sultana;  and  the  fever  called  love  makes  a  coward  of 
the  bravest  of  men.  He  feared  what  he  had  never  feared 
before — a  rejection  ;  and  a  rejection  from  her,  even  the 
thought  of  one,  nearly  sent  him  mad. 

And  all  this  while  Miss  Olive  Henderson  sat  on  her 
piano-stool,  and  sang  "  Hear  me,  iSforma,"  serenely  un- 
conscious of  the  storm  going  on  in  the  Englisli  ofhcer's 
bretist.  He  had  heard  that  very  song  a  thousand  times 
better  sung,  by  Nathalie  Marsh.  Ah!  poor  forgotten 
Nathalie  !-^but  he  was  not  listening  to  the  singing.  For 
him,  the  circling  sphere  seemed  momentarily  standing 
still,  and  the  business  of  afe  suspended.  He  was  pej-- 
fectly  white  in  his  agitation,  and  the  hand  that  turned  the 
loaves  shook.  His  tiuie  liad  comt'.  The  c;ird  ]'arty  wei-o 
too  much  absoibed  in  scoring  their  points  to  iieed  them, 


299-  TEE    DOUBLE    COMPACT. 

and  now,  or  never,  lie  must  know  his  fate.  What  he  said 
he  never  afterward  knew — but  Miss  Henderson  looked 
strangely  startled  by  his  white  face  and  half  incoherent 
sentences.  The  magical  words  were  spoken ;  but  as  the 
self-possessed  George  Cavendish  had  never  spoken  thus 
before,  and  the  supreme  question,  on  which  his  life's 
destiny  hung,  asked. 

The  piano  stood  in  a  sort  of  recess,  with  a  lace-draped 
window  to  the  right,  looking  out  upon  Golden  Row.  Miss 
Henderson  sat,  all  the  time  he  was  speaking,  looking 
straight  before  her,  out  into  the  coldly  moonlit  street,  ^ot 
once  did  her  color  change — no  tremor  made  the  scarlet 
flowers  on  her  breast  rise  and  fall — no  flutter  made  the 
misty  lace  about  her  tremble.  She  was  only  very  grave, 
ominously  grave,  and  the  man's  heart  tm-ned  sick  with  fear, 
as  he  watched  her  unchanging  face  and  the  dark  gravity 
of  her  eyes.  She  was  a  long  time  in  replying — all  the 
while  sitting  there  so  very  still,  and  looldng  steadfastly 
out  at  the  quiet  street ;  not  once  at  him.  When  she  did 
reply,  it  was  the  strangest  answer  he  had  ever  received  to 
such  a  declaration.     The  reply  was  another  question. 

"  Captain  Cavendish,"  she  said,  "  I  am  an  heiress,  and 
you — pardon  me — have  the  name  of  a  fortune-hunter.  If 
I  were  penniless,  as  I  was  before  this  wealth  became  mine 
— if  by  some  accident  I  were  to  lose  it  again — would  you 
say  to  me  what  you  have  said  now  ?" 

Would  he  ?  The  answer  was  so  vehement,  so  passion- 
ate, that  the  veriest  skeptic  must  have  beheved.  His  des- 
perate earnestness  was  written  ip  every  line  of  his  agitated 
face. 

"  I  believe  you,"  she  said ;  "  I  beheve  you.  Captain 
Cavendish.  I  think  you  do  love  me ;  but  I — I  do  not 
love  you  in  return." 

He  gave  a  sort  of  cry  of  despair,  but  she  put  up  one 
hand  to  check  him. 

"  I  do  not  love  you,"  she  steadily  repeated,  "  and  I 
have  never  loved  any  one  in  this  way.  Perhaps  it  is  not 
in  me,  and  I  do  not  care  that  it  should  be :  there  is  misery 
enough  in  the  world,  Heaven  knows,  without  that !  I  do 
not  love  you,  Captain  Cavendish,  but  I  do  not  love  any 


THE    DOUBLE     COMPAQ T.  297 

one  else.  I  esteem  and  respect  you ;  more,  I  like  you : 
and  if  you  can  be  content  with  this,  I  will  be  your  wife. 
If  you  cannot,  why,  we  will  be  friends  as  before, 
and '' 

But  he  would  not  let  her  finish.  He  had  caught  her 
hand  in  his,  and  broke  out  into  a  rhapsody  of  incoherent 
thanks  and  delight. 

"  There,  there !"  she  smilingly  interposed,  "  that  will 
do  !  Our  friends  at  the  card-table  will  hear  you.  Of  one 
tiling  you  may  be  certain  ;  I  siiall  be  true  to  you  until 
death  Your  honor  will  be  safe  in  my  hands;  and  this 
friendly  liking  may  grow  into  a  warmer  feeling  by-and-by. 
I  am  not  very  romantic,  Captain  Oavendish,  and  you  must 
not  ask  me  for  more  than  I  can  give." 

But  Captain  Cavendish  wanted  no  more.  He  was 
supremely  blessed  in  what  he  had  received,  and  his  hand- 
some face  was  radiant. 

"  Aly  darling,"  he  said,  "  I  ask  for  no  more !  I  shall 
think  the  devotion  of  a  whole  life  too  little  to  repay  you 
for  this." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Miss  Henderson,  rising ;  "  and  now, 
after  that  pretty  speech,  I  think  we  had  better  join  our 
friends,  or  my  duty  as  hostess  will  be  sadly  neglected." 

Slie  stood  behind  Aliss  Laura  Blair  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  watching  the  liuctuations  of  the  game,  and  with 
no  sliadow  of  change  in  her  laughing  face.  She  stood 
there  until  the  little  party  broke  up,  which  Wiis  some 
time  after  ten,  when  Mr.  Blair  called  around  for  Laura 
himself.  Miss  Laura  was  not  to  say  over  and  above 
obliged  to  her  pa  for  this  act  of  paternal  aifection — since 
she  would  have  iulinitely  preferred  the  escort  of  Mr.  Blake. 
That  gentleman  hooked  his  arm  within  that  of  Captain 
Cavendish,  and  bade  Miss  Blair  good-night,  with  seraphic 
iuditLcrence. 

Miss  Henderson's  bedroom  windows  cooimanded  an 
eastward  view  of  the  bay,  and  when  she  wont  up  to  her 
room  that  night,  she  sat  for  a  long  time  gazing  out  over 
the  shining  track  the  full  moon  made  for  herself  on  the 
tranquil  sea.  "  Gaspereaux  montli"  had  come  around 
again,  and  the  whole  bay  was  dotted  over  with  busy  boats. 
13* 


298  THE    DOUBLE    COMPACT. 

She  coukl  see  the  fishermen  casting  their  nets,  now  in  the 
shadow,  now  in  the  glittering  moonlight,  and  the  peaceful 
beauty  of  the  April  night  tilled  her  heart  with  a  deep, 
sweet  sense  of  happiness.  Perhaps  it  was  the  first  time 
since  her  arrival  in  Speckport  she  had  been  really  happy 
— a  vague  dread  and  uncertainty  had  hnng  over  her,  like 
that  fabled  sword,  suspended  by  a  single  hair,  and  ready 
io  fall  at  any  moment.  But  the  fear  was  gone,  she 
was  safe  now — her  inheritance  was  secure,  and  she 
was  the  promised  wife  of  an  honorable  gentleman. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  he  iniglit  be  a  baronet,  and  she  "my 
lady,"  and  her  ambitious  heart  throbbed  faster  at  the 
thought.  She  sat  there,  dreaming  and  feeling  very  hap23y, 
thinking  of  the  double  compact  ratified  that  most  event- 
ful day,  but  she  never  once  thanked  God — never  gave 
one  thought  to  him  to  whom  she  owed  it  all.  She  sat 
there  far  into  the  night,  thinking,  and  when  she  laid  her 
head  on  the  pillow  and  fell  asleep,  ^t  was  to  act  it  all  over 
in  dreamland  again. 

Some  one  else  lay  awake  a  long  time  that  night,  think- 
ing, too.  Miss  Clovvrie,  in  the  opposite  chamber,  did  not 
sit  up  by  the  window ;  Mrs.  Hill  would,  no  doubt,  not 
have  permitted  it,  and  Miss  Clowrie  was  a  great  deal  too 
sensible  a  person  to  run  the  risk  of  catching  cold.  But, 
though  she  lay  with  her  eyes  shut  she  was  not  asleep,  and 
Olive  Hendei-son  might  not  have  dreamed  quite  such 
happy  dreams  had  she  loiown  how  dark  and  ominous 
were  the  thoughts  the  attcmey's  pale  daughter  wai 
thinking. 


MR.    PAUL     WTNDEAM.  [299 

CHAPTER  XXYI. 

MR.   PAUL  WYNDHAM. 

pl!s"  the  morning  after  the  day  fraught  witli  so 
many  events  to  the  heu-ess  of  Redmon,  the 
mother  of  the  late  heiress  sat  in  the  sitting- 
room  of  lier  pleasant  seaside  home,  reading  a 
novel.  The  tirelight  slione  on  her  mourning- 
dress,  but  the  inward  mourning  was  not  very  profound. 
She  had  cried  a  good  deal  at  lii-st  for  the  loss  of  her  son 
and  daughter;  she  cried  sometimes  still  when  people 
talked  to  her  about  them  ;  but  she  cried  quite  as  much 
over  the  woes  of  her  pet  heroes  and  heroines,  bound  in 
paper  and  cloth,  and  slept  just  as  soimdly,  and  took  her 
meals  with  as  good  a  relish  as  ever  she  had  done  in  her 
life.  Mrs.  Marsh  was  not  greatly  given  to  borrowed 
trouble ;  she  took  the  goods  the  gods  provided,  and  let 
to-morrow  take  care  of  itself,  so  long  as  she  had  enough 
for  to-day.  Mr,  Val  Blake  paid  the  butcher's,  and  baker's, 
and  grocer's  bills  qnarterlj- ;  settled  with  Betsy  Ann,  and 
Miss  Jo  saw  that  she  was  well  dressed ;  and  Mrs.  Marsh 
took  all  as  a  matter  of  coui-se,  and  I  don't  think  even 
once  thanked  Mr.  Blake  for  his  kindness. 

On  this  sunny  spring  moniing  Mrs.  Mareh  sat  com- 
fortably reading,  so  absorbed  in  her  book  as  to  be  out  of 
the  reach  of  all  mundane  affairs.  The  book  had  a  bright 
yellow  cover,  with  a  striking  engraving  of  one  man 
grasping  another  by  the  throat,  and  presenting  a  pistol  at 
his  head,  and  was  called  the  "  Red  Robber  of  the  Rocky 
Moimtajns" — a  sequel  to  the  "Black  Brigand," — when, 
just  in  the  middle  of  a  most  thrilling  chapter,  Mrs.  Marsh 
was  disturbed  by  a  knock  at  the  front  door.  Betsy  Aim 
answered  the  summons,  and  stood  transtixed  at  the  shin- 
ing apparition  she  beheld.  A  beautiful  young  lady,  with 
big  black  eyes,  that  shone  on  Betsy  Ann  like  two  black 


800  ¥R.     PAUL     WTI^DHAM. 

diamonds,  aiTayed  in  rustling  silk,  and  a  ricli  creamy  crape 
shawl,  with  a  bonnet  line  enough  for  the  queen  of  Eng- 
land, stood  before  her,  asking,  in  a  silvery  voice,  if  Mrs. 
Marsh  were  at  home.  Standing  before  the  door  was  a 
small  open  carriage,  drawn  by  two  millv-white  ponies ;  and 
iMiss  Laura  Blair  sat  within,  noddiug  pleasantly  to  her, 
Betsy  Ann,  and  holding  the  reins.  The  girl,  quite  dazzled 
by  the  splendor  of  this  early  visitor,  ushered  the  radiant 
vision  into  the  room  where  her  mistress  sat,  and  Mrs. 
Mai-sli  arose  witii  an  exclamation  of  surprise  she  could  not 
repress.  They  had  met  a  few  times  before  at  the  houses 
of  mutual  friends,  but  this  was  the  young  lady's  first 
caU. 

"Miss  Henderson,"  Mrs.  Marsh  stammered,  utterly 
at  a  loss  what  to  say — "  I  am  sure  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you ;  I  have  not  had  many  visitors  of  late." 

Tears  rose  to  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  with  the  thoughts 
of  the  pleasant  days  gone  by,  when  the  friends  of  Nath- 
alie and  Charley,  the  friends  of  their  prosperity,  had 
made  the  cottage  more  gay  w'ith  laughter  and  music. 
Miss  Hendei-son  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  into  the  red 
coal-fire. 

"  I  have  come  on  a  little  matter  of  business,  Mrs. 
Marsli,"  she  said.  "  I  have  come  to  fulfill  a  duty  I  owe 
to  you.  I  know  the  stoiy  of  the  past,  and,  I  am  afraid, 
you  must  feel  in  some  degree  as  if  I  had  taken  from  you 
what  should  have  been  yours.  Your — ^your  daughter  had 
no  doubt  a  prior  claim  to  what  I  now  possess,  and  com- 
mon justice  requires  you  should  not  be  defrauded.  I  am 
aware  of  Mr.  Blake  s  great  generosity,  but  the  duty 
—and,  I  assure  you,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me — lies  with  me, 
not  with  him.  I  have,  therefore,  settled  upon  you,  for 
life,  an  annuity  of  one  hundred  pounds  per  annum,  which 
will  be  paid  to  you  at  my  banker's,  monthly  or  quarterly, 
as  you  may  prefer.  It  was  to  say  this  I  came  so  early 
this  morning,  but,  if  you  will  permit  me,  this  visit  shall 
be  but  the  forerunner  of  many  others." 

She  was  standiug  up  as  she  finished,  with  a  look  of 
intense  relief   at   having    accomplished    her  task,   and 


MR    PAUL     W7NDE1M.  8C1 

]ldrs.  Marsh  altogetlier  too  dazed  and  bewildered  to  utter 
a  word. 

"And  I  shall  be  very,  very  happy,  my  dear  ]\Irs. 
Morsh,"  tlic  hoiress  said,  liending  over  her,  and  taking 
her  hand,  "if  yon  will  sonietinies  eonie  up  and  see  me. 
1  liave  no  mother,  and  I  will  look  upon  you  as  such,  if 
you  will  let  me." 

Mrs.  Marsh  saw  her  go,  feeling  as  though  she  were 
in  a  dream,  or  acting  a  chapter  out  of  one  of  her  own 
romances. 

Miss  Henderson  took  her  place  beside  Laura  in  the 
pony  carriage,  and  they  drove  slowl}'  along  Cottage  Street, 
looking  at  the  broad  bine  bay,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine, 
as  if  sown  with  stars.  The  beach,  with  its  warm,  white 
sands,  edged  the  sea  like  a  silver  streak ;  and  the  waves 
eiang  their  old  music,  as  they  crept  up  on  its  breast. 

"How  beautir'ul  it  all  isj"  the  heiress  cried,  her  dai-k 
face  lighting  up  as  it  always  did  at  siglit  of  the  ocean. 
"  Let  us  get  out,  Laura ;  I  could  stay  here  listening  to 
those  sailors  singing  forever." 

There  were  some,  idle  boys  at  play  on  an  old  wharf, 
overgrown  Avith  moss  and  slimy  seaweed,  its  tarry  plauks 
rotting  in  the  sun. 

Miss  ilendwson  dropped  a  bright  silver  shilling  into 
the  dirty  palm  of  one,  and  asked  him  to  hold  the  ponies 
fcjrten  minutes;  and  the  two  girls  walked  along  the  de- 
caying; and  deserted  old  wharf  together. 

"My  solemn  Laura!"  the  heiress  said,  looking  at  her 
friend's  grave  face;  "what  a  doleful  countenance  you 
wear!     Of  what  are  you  thinking?" 

"  I  am  thinking  of  poor  Nathalie  Marsh,"  Laura  an- 
swered ;  "  it  was  on  this  very  wharf  she  met  her  death, 
that  wild,  windy  night.  1  have  never  been  near  the  place 
since." 

It  is  a  remarkable  trait  of  these  swarthy  faces  that 
emotion  does  not  pale  them  as  it  does  their  blonde  neigh - 
boi-s — they  darken.  Miss  Henderson's  face  darkened 
now — it  always  seemed  to  do  so  when  the  name  of  the 
dead  girl  was  mentioned.  She  turned  away  from  her 
friend,  and  stood  staring  moodily  out  to  sea,  until  an  ex- 


302  MB.     PAUL     ]VTNDHAM. 

clamation  from  that  yonng  lady  caused  her  to  turn  round 
and  perceive  that  eitlier  the  sea-wind  or  some  other 
cause  had  very  perceptibly  heightened  Miss  Blair'p 
color. 

"  I  declare  if  that's  not  Yalj"  Laura  cried,  "  and  that 
strange  gentleman  with  hira  that  came  from  New  York 
the  other  day.  There!  they  see  us,  and  are  coming 
here." 

Miss  Henderson  looked  indifferently  as  Mr.  Blake  and 
his  friend  approached.  Yal  introduced  his  companion  to 
the  ladies  as  Mr.  Paul  Wj-ndham,  of  New  York,  and 
that  gentleman  was  received  graciously  by  Miss  Blair, 
and  coldly,  not  to  say  haughtily,  by  Miss  Hendereou. 

The  heiress  did  not  like  peoj^le  from  New  Y^ork.  She 
never  talked  about  that  city,  if  slie  could  help  it,  and 
rather  avoided  all  pereons  coming  from  it.  She  stood, 
looking  vacantly  out  at  the  wide  sea,  and  listening  to  the 
sailors'  song,  taking  very  little  part  in  the  conv^ersatiou. 
She  turned  round,  when  the  singing  ceased,  in  tlie  direc- 
tion of.  her  carriage,  with  a  listless  yawn  she  was  at  little 
trouble  to  suppress,  and  a  bored  look  she  took  no  pains  to 
conceal.  The  gentlemen  saw  them  safely  off,  and  then 
loitered  back  to  the  old  wharf. 

"  Well,  Wyndham,"  Val  asked,  " and  what  do  you 
think  of  the  Princess  of  Speckpoit  ?" 

Mr.  Paul  Wyndham  did  not  immediately  reply.  He 
was  leaning  lazily  against  a  rotten  beam,  Hghting  a  cigar, 
for  he  was  an  inveterate  smoker. 

Mr.  Wyndham  was  not  handsome,  he  was  not  dashing 
— he  had  neither  mustache  nor  whisker,  nor  an  aquiline 
nose ;  and  he  could  not  dance  or  sing,  or  do  anything  else 
like  any  other  young  Christian  gentleman.  He  was  very 
slight  and  boyish  of  tigure,  with  a  pale,  student-like  face, 
a  high  forehead,  deep-set  eyes,  a  characteristic  nose,  and  a 
thin  and  somewhat  C3'nical  mouth.  There  was  character 
in  everything  about  him,  even  in  the  mathematical  pre- 
cision of  his  dress,  faultlessly  neat  in  the  snudlest  particu- 
lar, and  scrupulously  simple.  He  looked  like  a  gentleman 
and  a  student,  and  he  was  both.  More,  he  was  an  author, 
a  Bohemian,  with  a  well-earned  literary  fame,  at  the  age 


MB.    PAUL     WTNDHAM.  808 

of  seven-and-twenty.  When  he  was  a  lad  of  seventeen 
he  had  started  with  his  "  knapsack  on  his  back,"  contain- 
ing a  clean  shirt,  and  a  qnire  of  foolsca]),  and  had  traveled 
through  Europe  and  Asia,  and  had  written  two  charming 
books  of  travel,  that  filled  his  pockets  with  dollai-s,  and 
established  his  fame  as  an  authoi-.  Since  then  he  had 
written  some  half-dozen  delightful  novels,  over  which 
Laura  Blair  herself  had  cried  and  laughed  alternately,  al- 
though she  did  not  know  now  that  Mr.  Wyndham  and 

were  one  and  the  same.     He  had  written  plays 

that  had  run  fifty  nights  at  a  time,  and  his  sketches  were 
the  chief  cliarm  of  one  or  two  of  the  best  American 
magazines.  He  was  a  poet,  an  author,  a  dramatist,  some- 
times ai#actor,  when  he  took  the  notion,  and  a  successful 
man  in  all.  He  looked  as  those  inspired  men  who  chain 
lis  with  their  wonderful  word-painting  should  look,  albeit 
1  reiterate  he  was  not  handsome.  He  stood  now  leaning 
against  the  rotten  beam,  smoking  his  cigar,  and  looking 
dreamily  over  the  shining  sea,  while  Mr.  Blake  repeated 
liis  question. 

"  I  say,  Wyndham,  how  do  you  like  her — the  beauty, 
the  belle,  the  rrinccss  of  Speckport  ?" 

"  She  is  a  tine-looking  girl,"  Mr.  AVyndham  quietly  re- 
plied. "And  those  big  black  eyes  of  hers  are  very  hand- 
some, indeed.  It  strikes  me  I  should  like  to  marry  that 
girl !" 

'*  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  composedly,  "  1  dare  say.  I 
know  several  other  gentlemen  in  Speckport  who  would 
like  to  do  the  same  thing,  only  they  can't,  unfortunately." 

«  Can^t  they  ?    WhyT 

"  Because  there  is  an  absurd  law  against  bigamy  in  this 
province,  and  the  young  lady  has  promised  to  marry  one 
man  already." 

"Ah!  who  is  he?" 

"  Captahi  Cavendish.  You  met  liini  yesterday,  you 
remember.  He  proposed  the  other  night  at  the  house,  and 
told  me  about  it  coming  home.  She  accepted  him  ;  but 
the  affair  has  not  yet  been  made  pubUc,  by  the  lady's  ex- 
press desire." 


tOi  MR.     PAUL     Wnf^DHAM. 

Mr.  "W"yndliam  took  out  his  cigar,  knoci^ed  oS  the 
ashes  with  the  end  of  his  little  linger,  and  replaced  it. 

"  Captain  Cavendish  is  a  lucky  fellow,"  he  said.  *'  But 
yet  I  don't  desjjair.  Until  the  wedding-ring  actually  slips 
over  the  ladv's  linger,  there  is  room  for  hope." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  &he  is  engaged." 

"  Cest  hien!  There  is  many  a  slip.  I  don't  believe 
she  Mill  ever  be  Mrs.  Cavendish." 

Mr.  Blake  stared  at  his  friend ;  but  that  gentleman 
looked  the  very  picture  of  calm  composure. 

''  My  dear  Wyndham,"  Mr.  Blake  remarked,  compas- 
sionately, "  you  are  simply  talking  nonsense.  I  know  you 
are  very  clever,  and  famous,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  brain  is  excellent  in  its  way ;  but  I  tell  you  %t  has  no 
chance  against  baauty." 

"  By  which  you  would  imply,  I  stand  no  chance 
against  Captain  Cavendish.  Now,  if  you'll  believe  me,  I 
am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  generally  manage  to  accomplish 
whatever  I  set  my  heart  upon ;  and  I  don't  think — I  really 
don't,  old  boy — that  I  shall  fail  in  this.  Besides,  if  it  does 
come  to  beauty,  I  am  not  such  a  bad-looking  fellow,  m 
the  main." 

To  say  that  Mr.  Blake  stared  after  hearing  this  ppeecb 
would  be  but  a  feeble  description  of  the  open-muuthed' 
and-eyed  gape  with  which  he  favored  its  deliverer.  To 
do  Mr.  Wyndham  justice,  he  was  that  phenomenon  not 
often  seen — a  modest  author.  He  never  bored  his  enemy 
about  "  My  last  book,  sir!"  he  never  alluded  to  his  literary 
iaboi-s  at  all,  unless  directly  spoken  to  on  the  subject ;  and 
certainly  had  never  before  displayed  any  vanity.  There- 
fore, Mr.  Blake  stared,  not  quite  decided  whether  he  had 
heard  aright ;  and  Mr.  Wyndham,  seeing  the  look,  did 
what  he  did  not  often  do,  burst  out  laughing. 

"  My  dear  old  Yal,"  he  cried,  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder,  "  1  have  not  lost  my  senses ;  so  there  is  no  need 
of  that  look.  I  should  like  to  have  a  tall  wife — small  men 
always  do,  you  know — with  black  eyes  and  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars ;  and  I  shall  enter  the  lists  with  this  fasci- 
nating Captain  Cavendish,  and  bear  off  the  prize  if  I  can, 
in  spite  of  liis  sword,  and  uniform,  and  handsome  face. 


MR.     PAUL     WYNDUAM.  303 

I  think,  on  the  wliole,  I  shall  make  the  young  ladj  qnite 
as  good  a  husband  as  he." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  drawing  a  long  breath,  and 
appeal inp^  to  the  deep,  "for  cool  impudence  and  self-con- 
ceit, Paul  Wyndliain  luisn't  his.  match  in  broad  America. 
Here  he  comes  from  Xew  York ;  and  before  he  is  a  week 
in  the  place  he  talks  of  marrying  the  richest  and  haud- 
Bomest  girl  it  contains,  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  Sultan  of  all 
Turkey,  and  she  a  Circassian  slave.  Yes,  Mr.  Wyndham, 
ask  her,  by  all  means,  and  when  you  get  your  coiige,  let 
me  know — it  will  be  one  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life." 

"  But  I  don't  think  1  shall  get  my  conye^''  persisted 
Paul  Wyndham.  "Do  you  know  if  she  is  in  love  with 
this  Captain  Cavendish  ?" 

"  I  never  asked  her,"  responded  Mr.  Blake.  "  I  leave 
that  for  Mr.  Wyndham  to  ascertain." 

"  Because  I  don't  think  she  is,"  went  on  his  friend. 
"  V\rhen  she  stood  here  a  few  minutes  ago,  you  and  the 
other  young  lady.  Miss — what's  her  name? — were  talking 
of  the  gallant  captain,  and  she  listened  with  a  face  of  per- 
fect indifference.  I  was  watching  her,  and  I  don't  think 
she  cares  about  him." 

"  I  saw  you  watching  her,"  said  Val,  "  and  so  did  she, 
and  I  don't  think  she  liKed  it.  1  saw  those  black  brows 
of  hers  contract  once  or  twice,  and  that  is  an  ominous 
sign  witli  Miss  Henderson." 

"  Miso  Henderson  could  fly  into  a  dickens  of  a  passion, 
too,  if  she  liked.  Your  black-eyed,  black-haired,  brown- 
skinned  women  raise  the  very  old  diable  hei*self,  if  you 
stroke  them  the  wp-^ig  way.  They  are  something  like  big 
black  cats.  I  tell  you,  Blako,  I  don't  believe  she  cares 
about  that  military  pop'njay,  Cavendish." 

"  Don't  you,"  said  Mr.'  Blake,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.     "  Of  course,  if  you  say  so  it  must  be  so." 

"  No ;  but  I  really  think  so.  Are  his  family  anything 
in  England  ?" 

"  It  is  currently  believed  he  is  next  heir  to  a  baronetcy. 
But  the  baronet  got  married  in  his  old  days,  and  there  is 
a  little  shaver  in.  petticoats  to  cut  Master  George  out.  Still, 
he  Urea  in  hope.     The  new  baronet  has  the  measles  and 


806  MR.     PAUL     WTNDHAM. 

the  mumps,  and  tlie  whooping-cough,  and  the  scarlatlua, 
and  the  chicken-pox,  and  a  tribe  of  other  diseases,  his 
teeth  included,  to  struggle  through,  before  he  reaches 
man's  estate.  There  is  no  telhng  but  Cavendish  may  be 
a  baronet  yet." 

"  That  is  it,  then  !"  said  Wyndham.  "  It  is  for  his 
prospective  baronetcy  the  girl  has  promised  to  marry  him. 
Pride  and  ambition,  the  two  sins  that  hurled  Lucifer  from 
heaven  to  hell,  are  strong  in  that  woman." 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  said  Val,  starting  up,  "  I  think  we 
had  better  get  out  of  this,  and  drop  the  subject.  It  strikes 
me  your  language  is  rather  forcible,  Mr.  Wyndham ;  and 
tiiere  is  no  telling  what  you  may  work  youi-self  up  to,  if 
you  keep  ■  on.  It  wouldn't  be  healthy  for  you,  I'm  think- 
ing, if  Miss  Henderson  heard  you." 

"Nevertheless,"  Paul  Wyndham  persisted,  flinging 
jiwa}'  his  smoked-out  weed,  "  I  shall  many  Miss  Hender- 
son." 

The  two  friends  walked  away  together  to  the  office  in 
Queen  Street — Mr.  Blake  disdaining  all  reply  to  the  last 
i-emark. 

On  their  wa}'^  they  met  Captain  Cavendish,  mounted 
on  his  favorite  bay,  and  looking  the  very  beau  ideal  of  a 
military  lider,  slowly  cantering  beside  the  pretty  pony- 
carriage  where  the  Princess  of  Speckport  sat  in  state.  The 
contrast  between  the  handsome  officer  on  hoi"seback  and 
the  young  author  on  foot  was  great ;  but  Mr.  Wyndham 
bowed  to  the  soldier  and  his  fair  friends  with  undisturbed 
placidity. 

"  You  see !"  said  Mr.  Blake,  signiricantly. 

"  I  see,"  serenely  answered  Mr.  Wyndham ;  "  and  I 
repeat,  I  shall  marry  Miss  Olive  Henderson !" 

There  was  nothing  at  all  of  boasting  in  the  tone  of 
Mr.  Paul  Wyndham  in  saying  this — simply  one  of  deep, 
quiet  determination.  You  had  only  to  look  at  his  face — 
tiiat  pale,  steadfast  face — if  you  were  any  judge  of  physi- 
ognomy, to  perceive  that  his  assurance  to  Mr.  Blake,  of 
scklom  failing  in  any  imdertaking,  was  no  idle  bravado. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  of  iron  inflexibility,  of  invincible 
daring;  of  ovei  mastering  strength  of  will,  bending  all 


MR.     PAUL     WTNDHAM.  807 

otlier  wills  to  tlieir  o^^^l.  Men  of  the  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
stamp,  made  to  sway  empires,  and  move  about  other  men, 
kings  and  knights,  queens  and  bishops,  as  they  please,  on 
the  gi'eat  chessboard  of  life.  Mr.  Val  Blake,  knowing 
Paul  Wyndham,  had  some  dim  perception  of  this  ;  but  he- 
knew,  too,  that  Olive  Henderson  was  no  ordinary  v.'oman. 
He  had  a  strong  will,  and  so  had  she ;  but  it  was  only  a 
woman's  will  after  all,  and  with  it  went  womanl}'-  weak- 
ness, passion,  and  impulse,  and  the  calm,  passionless  man 
was  tlic  master-mind. 

"  But  I  think  she  will  baffle  him  here,  after  all,"  Mr. 
Blake  said  to  himself,  as  he  ceased  thinking  about  the 
matter.  "I  don't  believe  Olive  Henderson  will  ever 
marry  Paul  Wyndham,  not  but  what  he's  a  great  deal 
better  fellow  than  Cavendish,  after  all  I" 

It  seemed  as  though  he  was  right,  for  a  whole  week 
passed  before  Mr.  Wyndham  and  Miss  Henderson  met 
again.  The  engagement  of  the  heiress  with  Captain 
Cavendish,  though  not  formally  announced,  was  pretty 
generally  known  ;  and  it  was  rumored  that  the  wedding 
was  to  take  place  early  in  June.  May  had  come  in, 
dra|)ed  in  a  sodden  sheet  of  gi'ay  wet  fog ;  but  the  villa 
at  Redmon  went  steadily  up,  despite  of  wind  and  weather. 
Landscape-gardeners  were  turning  the  potato-patches  and 
broad  meadows  and  turnip-fields  into  a  little  heaven  below, 
-iud  the  place  was  to  be  completed  in  July,  when  Mrs. 
Grundy  said  the  happy  pair  would  be  returning  from 
their  bridal-tour,  and  take  up  their  abode  therein. 

Mr.  Paul  Wyndham  heard  all  this  as  he  smoked  his 
cigars  and  wrote  away  placidly  at  his  new  novel,  and  was 
in  nowise  disturbed.  Mr.  Val  Blake  heard  it,  and 
grinned  as  he  thought  of  the  egotistical  young  author 
.g3tting  bafHed  for  once.  Miss  Henderson's  innumerable 
admirers  heard  it,  and  gnashed  their  teeth  with  impotent, 
jealous  fury,  and,  lastly^  Miss  Henderson  herself  heard  it, 
and  frowned  and  laughed  alternately. 

"  This  horrid  gossi['ing  town  of  yoiirs,  Laura !"  she 
said  impatiently ;  ''  how  do  they  find  out  everything  as 
soon  as  one  knows  it  one's  self,  I  wonder !  I  wish  people 
would  mind  their  own  business  and  let  me  alone  I" 


808  MR     PAUL     WYNDEAM. 

"  Great  people  must  pay  tlie  penalty  of  greatness,  mv 
dear,"  Miss  Blair  answered,  philosophically;  "and, 
besides,  it  is  only  a  question  of  time,  so  don't  get  into  a 
gale  about  it!  It  doesn't  matter  much  whether  it  is 
known  this  minute  or  the  next." 

The  conversation  between  the  young  ladies  took  place 
in  Miss  Henderson's  room,  and  while  dressing  for  a  ball. 
It  was  to  be  a  very  grand  ball  indeed,  given  by  the  officei-s, 
and  to  which  only  the  tiptop  cream  of  the  cream  of  Speck- 
port  society  was  to  be  invited.  Of  course  Miss  Hender- 
son was  the  first  lady  thought  of,  and  of  course  her  friend 
Miss  Blair  came  next;  but  Mr.  Yal  Blake,  who  didn't  be- 
long to  the  creme  at  all,  was  to  be  there  too.  But  Mr. 
Blake  was  such  a  good  fellow,  and  hand  and  glove  with 
the  whole  barracks,  and  was  so  useful  to  puff  their  con- 
certs and  theatricals-in  the  "  Spouter,"  and  praise  the  bass  of 
Lieutenant  the  Honorable  L.  H.  Blank,  and  the  tenor-solo 
of  Captain  G.  P.  Cavendish,  etc.,  etc.,  that  it  would  have 
been  an  unpardonable  breach  to  have  omitted  him.  Mr. 
Paul  Wyndham,  whose  fame  as  an  author  had  by  this 
time  reached  Speckport,  was  also  to  be  there ;  and  the 
ball  was  expected  to  be  the  most  brilliant  thing  of  the 
season. 

As  far  as  weather  went,  it  was  rather  a  failure  already. 
The  dismal,  clammy  fog  had  subsided  at  last  into  rain, 
and  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  of  Miss  Henderson's 
room,  and  the  wind  shrieked  about  the  cottage,  and  roared 
out  at  sea  as  if  bent  on  making  a  night  of  it.  The  lieiress, 
with  Rosie,  the  maid,  putting  the  linishing  touches  to  her 
toilette,  stood  listening  to  the  storm,  and  drearily  watch- 
ing the  reflection  of  her  own  face  and  ligiu'e  in  the  tall 
glass.  She  had  taken  a  fancy  to  be  grandly  somber  to- 
night, and  wore  black  velvet  and  the  diamonds  Speck- 
port  talked  so  much  of,  ablaze  on  throat  and  arms.  There 
were  blood-red  flowers  in  her  tar-black  hair,  and  in  her 
bouquet  which  lay  on  the  dressing  table,  but  she  looked 
moi"e  superb  in  her  sable  splendor  than  ever. 

Was  Miss  Laura  Blair,  with  her  commonplace  pretti- 
ness  of  fair  skin,  pink  cheeks,  and  waving  brown  hair, 
laying  herself  out  as  a  foil  to  the  black-eyed  siren  ?   She 


MR.     PAUL     WYNDHAM,  S0» 

was  dressed  in  wliite  moire  antique,  gemmed  ^vitli  seed- 
pearls,  and  witli  a  train  of  richness  that  swept  half  way 
across  the  room.  She  liad  white  roses  in  her  hair,  on  her 
breast,  and  in  her  bouquet.  She  wore  pearl  bracelets 
and  necklace,  and  looked  fair  ao  a  lily — a  vivid  contrast 
to  her  black  and  crimson  neighbor. 

Miss  Hendei*son  sent  Kosie  out  of  the  room,  and  stood 
listening  in  silence  for  a  while  to  the  raging  of  the  storm. 
Presently  she  turned  to  Laura,  who  was  all  absorbed 
settling  her  laces  and  jewels,  with  a  rather  singular  in- 
quiry on  her  lips. 

"  Laura,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "  what  is  the  matter  with 
me  to-night  ?  Why  am  I  afraid  to  go  to  the  ball  ?"  Miss 
Blair  turned  round  and  gazed  aghast  at  this  question. 
The  shadow  th^sometimes  lay  on  her  friend's  face  was 
there  now,  like  a  dark  vail. 

"Dear me,  Oily!  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean !     Afraid  to  go  to  the  ball  ?" 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Olive,  "  afraid !  I  feel  as  though 
something  were  going  to  happen !  I  have  a  presentiment 
that  some  misfortune  is  before  me !  I  have  had  it  all 
day!" 

"  It's  the  weather,  dear,"  said  Laura,  retiring  to  the 
toilet,  "  or  else  it's  indigestion.     Don't  be  foolish  !" 

Oliv^e  Henderson  was  in  no  laughing  humor,  but  she 
did  laugh,  half  fretfully,  though,  at  this' reply.  "It's  not' 
the  weather,  and  it's  not  the  indigestion.  Miss  Blair,"  she 
said,  "it  is  the  moral  barometer  giving  warning  of  a 
coming  storm — it  is  coming  events  casting  their  shadows 
before"  I  have  half  a  mind  not  to  go  to  the  ball  to- 
night." 

"  Konsense,  Oily  !"  exclaimed  Laura,  in  some  alarm, 
knowing  very  well  Olive  w^as  just  the  girl  not  to  go  if  she 
took  it  in  her  head,  "  how  absiml  you  are.  Presentiments  1 
pooh!  You've  been  reading  some  German  trash — that's 
what  you've  been  doing,  and  you  have  caught  some 
absurd  German  silliness!  I  should  like  to  see  you  try  to 
stay  away  from  the  ball,  the  last,  the  best,  the  brightest  of 
the  season,  and  you  looking  divine,  too,  in   that  blUck 


810  aVi?.     PAUL     WTNDHAM. 

velvet !     Wliat  could  possibly  happen  you  at  the  ball,  I 
should  like  to  know  ^" 

Miss  Henderson  and  Miss  Blair  were  rather  late  in 
arriving — nearly  every  one  was  there  before  them.  There 
were  two  gentlemen  who  came  considerably  late,  but  no 
one  noticed  them  much,  being  only  Mr.  Val  Blake  and 
liis  New  York  friend,  Mr.  Paul  AVyndham.  Mr.  Blake 
was  fond  of  dancing,  and  was  captured  by  Miss  Blair  al- 
most as  soon  as  he  entered,  and  led  off;  for  Miss  Laura 
did  make  love  to  this  big  stupid  Val  in  pretty  roundabout 
feminine  fashion,  as  women  have  a  way  of  doing  all  the 
world  over.  Mr.  Wyndham  did  not  dance,  and  as  he  was 
not  at  liberty  to  smoke,  the  ball  was  ratlier  a  bore  than 
otherwise.  He  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar,  watching 
the  dancers ;  his  pale,  grave,  quiet  fac^-^  and  thoughtful 
gray  eyes  ever  turned  in  one  direction.  A  great  many 
more  gentlemen's  faces  turned  presently  in  the  same 
quarter,  for  the  loadstone  of  the  ball  shone  there,  magni- 
ficent, in  black  velvet,  and  with  eyes  that  outshone  her 
diamonds.  AVas  there  rapport  between  them  ?  Was  it 
some  inward  magnetism  that  made  the  belle  of  the  ball, 
in  tlie  height  of  her  triumph  and  power,  aware  of  this 
fi:xed,  steadfast  gaze,  and  uneasy  nnder  it  ?  Flatterers  and 
sycophants  surrounded  her  on  every  hand,  but  she  had 
to  turn  restlessly  away  from  them  and  look  over  every 
now  and  then  to  that  pale,  watchful  face,  and  those  fixed, 
grave  gray  eyes. 

Paul  Wyndham  still  watched  her.  She  grew  nervous- 
ly miserable  at  last,  and  enraged  with  herself  for  becom- 
ing so.  If  this  strange  man  stared  radely,  what  was  it  to 
her  ?  She  would  take  no  further  notice  of  him,  she  woulo 
not  look  at  hj«i ;  and  saying  this  to  hei*self,  she  floated 
a\vay  in  the  y>' altz,  with  her  eyes  persistently  fixed  on  her 
partner  or  on  the  floor. 

The  waltz  concluded,  and  Miss  Henderson,  being  tired 
and  b.ot,  her  partner  led  her  to  a  seat,  and  left  her  to  get 
an  ice.  It  was  the  first  time  all  that  evening  she  had  been. 
for  a  moment  alone,  and  she  lay  back  among  the  cushions 
of  her  chair  and  listened  to  the  raging  of  the  storm  with- 
out. 


MR     PAUL     WTNDHAM  811 

The  seat  was  in  the  rcce&s  of  a  bay  window,  partly 
shut  out  from  the  room  by  scarlet  drapery,  and  she  was 
glad  to  think  slie  was  alone.  Alone !  No,  for  there  op- 
posite to  her  stood  Paul  Wyndhani,  his  magnetic  eyes 
fixed  with  powerful  intensity  on  her  face.  A  cold  thi-ill 
of  fear,  vague  and  chilling,  crept  through  every  vein — 
slie  would  have  risen,  in  undeiined  panic,  but  he  was  bj 
her  side  directly,  speaking  quietly  the  commonest  of  com- 
monplace words. 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Henderson.  I  trust  I  see  you 
well  and  enjoying  yourself.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  approaching  you,  you  have  been  so 
surrounded  all  the  evening." 

She  did  not  speak  ;  a  cold  bend  of  the  head  answered 
him,  and  she  rose  up,  haughty  and  pale.  But  he  would 
not  let  her  go  ;  the  power  of  his  fixed  gaze  held  her  there 
as  surely  as  if  she  had  been  chained. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  in  that  quiet  voice  of  his,  "  I  fear 
you  thought  me  rude  in  watching  you,  as  I  must  own  to 
having  done.  But  I  assure  you.  Miss  Hendei-son,  it  was 
no  intentional  rudeness;  neither  was  it  my  admiration, 
which,  pardon  me,  is  great !  I  watched.  Miss  Henderson, 
because  I  find  you  bear  a  most  startling,  a  most  wonderful 
resemblance  to  a  pereon — a  young  gu'l — I  once  knew  in 
l^ew  York." 

She  caught  her  breath,  feeling  the  blood  leaving  her 
face,  and  herself  growing  cold.  Paul  Wyndham  never 
took  his  pitiless  eyes  off  her  charming  face. 

"  in  saying  I  knew  tliiS  young  girl,"  he  slowly  went 
on,  "  I  am  wrong ;  I  only  saw  her  in  the  city  streets.  You 
ctime  from  New  York,  but  you  could  not  have  known  her, 
Miss  Hendereon,  for  she  was  abjectly  poor.  She  lived  in 
:•<  meau  and  dirty  thoroughfare  called  Minetta  Street ;  she 
lodged  in  a  house  filled  with  rough  factory- women,  and 
kept  by  one  Mi-s.  Butterby ;  and  the  young  woman's  name 
WJ5S  Harriet  Wade." 

A  moment  after  Mr.  Wyndham  said  this,  he  came  out 
of  the  curtained  recess,  and  crossed  the  ballroom  rapidly. 
On  his  way  he  met  Laura  Blair,  and  paused  to  speak. 

"  I  am  going  for  a  glass  of  water,"  he  said,  "  for  Miss 


813 


Mil      WYNDHAM'S     WOOINO. 


Henderson.  I  was  talking  to  her  at  that  window  when 
she  was  taken  suddenly  ill.  You  had  better  go  to  her, 
Miss  Blair     I  am  afraid  she  is  going  to  faint." 


CHAPTEE  XXYII. 


MR.    WYNDHAM's   WOOIJiJ^Q. 


BLEAK  and  rainy  morning  in  Speckport — ^a 
raw  and  windj  morning,  with  a  sky  all  lead- 
colov,  except   where  it   was  inky  black.     A 

wild,  wet,  rainy  day,  on  M'hicli  nobody  wanted 

to  stir  out  if  they  could  help  it.  An  utterly 
black  and  miserable  day,  that  which  followed  the  officers' 
ball. 

On  this  wretchedly  wet  and  windy  day  Olive  Hender- 
son sat  at  her  chamber  window,  and  looked  out  over  the 
black  and  foam-crestod  bay.  The  room  looked  very  cozy 
and  pleasant,  with  its  •  soft,  warm,  ijriglit-hued  Brnssels 
carpet,  its  cushioned  easy-chairs  and  lounges,  its  white- 
draped  bed,  its  pretty  pictures  and  tables,  and  bright  coal 
fire  burning  in  the  glittering  steel  grate,  its  costly  window- 
draperies  of  lace  and  damask,  looking  all  the  more  pleasant 
and  luxurious  by  contrast  with  the  black,  bleak  day  out- 
side. 

A  delightful  room  this  bad  May  morning,  a  room  to 
bask  and  luxuriate  in,  this  chamber  of  Olive  Henderson. 
But  Olive  Henderson  herself,  sitting  by  the  window, 
staring  blankly  out,  seemed  to  take  very  little  enjoyment 
in  its  comfort  and  beauty.  She  wore  a  white  loose  nmslin 
wrapper,  tied  carelessl)'  round  the  slender  waist,  with  a 
crimson  cord,  its  every  fold,  as  it  hung  straight  about  her, 
telling  how  indifferently  the  simple  toilette  had  been 
made.  x\ll  her  profuse  black  hair  was  drawn  away  from 
her  face,  haggard  and  worn  \\\  the  gray  morning  light,  and 


MR.      rrYKDHAM'S     WOOUfff.  813 

fastened  in  a  great  careless  knot  behind.  Bnt,  soucliow, 
the  stateliness  that  was  a  part  of  herself  characterized  her 
as  strikingly  in  this  primitive  simplicity  as  when  robed  in 
velvet  and  diamonds  last  night.  Perhaps  Semiramis, 
Queen  of  Ass^n-ia,  when  in  trouble  with  foreign  parts, 
wore  white  nuislin  wrappers,  and  her  black  hair  dishevel- 
ed, before  her  subjects,  and  managed  to  look  Queen  Semi- 
ramis withal.     It  isn't  likely,  you  know,  but  she  may. 

Rain,  rain,  rain !  How  ceaselessly  it  lashed  the  win- 
dows, and  how  piteously  it  beat  on  the  heads  of  the  poor 
little  newsboys,  passing  up  and  down  Golden  Row, 
and  chanting,  disconsolately,  "Morning  Snorter,"  the 
"  Sn-o-o-or-tor !"  Perhaps,  looking  up  at  the  curtained- 
window,  where  the  youn^  lady  sat,  these  newsboys  thought 
it  was  a  line  thing  to  be  Miss  Olive  Henderson,  the  heiress 
of  Redmon,  and  live  in  a  handsome  house,  with  servants 
to  wait  on  her,  and  nothing  to  do  but  play  the  piano,  and 
drive  about  in  her  ca?'riage  all  day  long.  But,  I  am  pretty 
sure,  there  was  not  a  pug-nosed  urchin  coming  there  that 
particular  morning,  who  was  not  a  tliousand  times  happier 
than  the  heiress  of  Redmon. 

Discovered — disgraced — in  the  power  of  tin's  man — 
this  stranger!  Liable  to  be  exposed  as  a  liar  and  a  cheat 
to  the  world  at  any  hour  !  Liable  to  have  all  this  wealth 
and  luxury,  for  which  she  had  done  so  nmch — for  which 
she  had  risked  her  very  soul — torn  from  her  at  any  instant, 
and  she  herself  thrust  out  to  fight  the  battle  of  life,  with 
poverty  and  labor  and  misery  once  more.  She  seemed  to 
have  grown  old  in  four-and-twenty  hours,  M-ith  her  hag- 
gard cheeks  and  great  hollow  eyes.  She  had  sat  as  she 
was  sitting  now  for  hours,  her  hands  clasped  loosely  in 
her  lap,  her  vacant  gaze  iixed  on  the  wretched  day,  but 
seeing  nothing.  Only  yesterday,  and  she  had  been  so  sure, 
so  secure,  so  liapny,  and  now — and  now  ! 

She  had  not  fainted  the  night  before.  Laura  Blair 
found  her  lying  back  ghastly  an\l  white  in  her  chair,  but 
Eot  insensible.  The  ballroom  had  been  filled  with  con- 
sternation, and  she  was  so  surrounded  immediately  that 
Mr.  "Wjndliam,  returning  with  his  glass  of  water,  2ould 
lind  no  possibility  of  approaching  her.  They  had  led  her 
14 


314  MR.     WTNDHAM'S     WOOING. 

into  the  ladies'  dressing-room,  and  Captain  Cavendish  had 
gone  for  a  cab ;  and  when  she  was  a  little  better,  they  took 
her  home,  and  the  rest  went  back  to  the  ballroom,  reople 
began  to  think  that  in  spite  of  Miss  Henderson's  apparent 
ph^^sical  perfeeticn,  eiie  was  subject  to  fainting-hts,  and 
pitied  her  xerj  much,  as  they  resumed  their  dancing.  But 
the  eclipsed  belles  of  Speckport  rejoiced,  I  am  afraid,  in 
their  wicked  little  hearts,  that  the  conqneress  was  gone,* 
and  held  up  their  pretty  heads,  Avhieh  had  drooped  in  the 
sunlight  of  her  shining  jjresence  before. 

Once  at  home,  Miss  Henderson  professed  hei-self  per- 
fectly restored,  and  insisted  on  Laura  and  her  mamma, 
who  had  been  their  chaperone,  and  Captain  Cavendish, 
going  back  to  the  ball  once  more. 

"  I  shall  do  well  enough  now,"  glje  said,  weai'ily.  "  I 
am  very  foolish,  but 

Her  voice  died  away,  and  her  head  drooped  forward 
on  her  arm.  Captain  Cavendish  bent  tenderly  over  her, 
as  she  lay  on  a  sofa,  with  a  pale  and  anxious  face. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  you  are  very 
ill.  Let  me  go  for  Dr.  Leach — this  may  be  something 
serious." 

But  Miss  Hendereon  positively  refused,  and  insisted  on 
their  retm'ning  to  the  ball. 

"  I  shall  lie  down  and  go  asleep,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will 
be  quite  restored  to-morrow.     Go  at  once." 

"I  shall  go,"  the  captain  said, holding  her  hands,  "but 
not  back  to  the  ball.  Do  you  think  tliere  con  Id  be  any 
pleasure  for  me  there,  and  you  absent,  Olive?  Good 
night,  my  love — ^get  rid  of  this  white  face  before  I  see 
you  to-morrow," 

Olive  Hendereon  slept  that  night,  but  it  was  nioi'e  like 
stupor  than  healthful  sleep,  and  she  awoke  with  a  dally 
throbbing  headache,  and  a  numbing  sense  of  misery  at  her 
heart.  She  had  arisen  in  the  black  and  wretclied  dawn  of 
that  miserable  May  morning,  and  had  sat  staring  vacantly 
out  at  the  ce;iseless  rain,  and  dark  and  tm'bid  sea.  She 
was  not  thinking — she  was  sitting  there  in  a  dull  torpor 
of  despair,  waiting  for  the  end. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.     It  had  to  be  repeated 


MR    WYjsrnrrAM's   wooing.  z\n 

two  or  iliree  times  before  slie  comprehended  wliat  it  meant, 
and  then  slie  arose  and  opened  the  door.  It  was  liosie, 
tlie  housemaid ;  and  the  girl  recoiled  at  sight  of  her,  as  if 
she  had  seen  a  ghost. 

"  Mj  patience,  Miss  !  how  bad  you  do  look  !  I  am 
afraid  you  are  worse  than  you  was  last  night." 

"  Kc.     What  is  it  you  want  ?" 

"  It's  a  gentleman.  Miss,  that  has  called,  and  is  in  the 
drawing-room,  although  it  is  raining  cats  and  dogs." 

She  presented  a  card  to  her  mistress,  and  Olive  read 
the  name  of  "  Paul  Wyndham."  She  turned  sick  at  sight 
of  that  name — that  name  so  lately  heard  for  the  first  time, 
but  so  terribly  familiar  now ;  and  looked  at  the  girl  with 
a  sort  of  terror  in  her  great  black  eyes. 

"  Is  this  man — is  this  Mr.  Wyndham  here  ?" 

"  Down  in  the  drawing-room.  Miss,  and  his  overcoat 
and  umbrella  making  little  streams  of  rain-water  all  along 
the  hall.     Will  you  go  down,  Miss  ?" 

Olive  Henderson's  hand  had  closed  on  the  pasteboard 
with  so  convulsive  a  pressure,  that  the  card  was  cinished 
into  a  shapeless  mass.  Her  stupor  was  ending  in  a  sort  of 
sullen  desperation.  Let  the  worst  come, it  was  Fate;  and 
she  was  powerless  to  battle  with  so  formidable  a  foe. 
V/hatever  brought  this  man  now,  his  coming  was  merci- 
ful ;  the  most  dreadful  certainty  was  bstter  than  this  hor- 
rible suspense,  wiiich  had  mad3  the  past  night  a  century 
of  misery. 

Rosic,  the  pretty  housemaid,  watched  her  young  lady's 
changing  face,  as  she  walked  rapidly  up  and  down,  her 
eyes  staring  straight  before  her  with  a  fierce  and  fevei-ish 
liistcr,  and  her  lips  so  rigidly  set.  Eosie  saw  all  this,  and 
greatly  marveled  thereat.  A  gentleman  had  called  very 
eaily  on  a  very  wet  morning ;  but  that  was  no  reason 
why  Miss  Henderson  should  be  prancing  np  and  dov-Ti 
iier  room,  with  the  look  of  an  inmate  of  a  Innatio  asylum. 

''Will  I  tell  him  you'll  come  dowji.  Miss?"  Ilosie 
ventured  to  ask,  when  she  thought  the  silence  had  lasted 
long  enough. 

"The  voice  of  the  girl  drew  Olive  out  of  her  darkly- 
brooding  fit,  and  she  turned  to  close  her  door. 


310  MR.      WYNDHAM'S     WOOSTQ. 

"  Yes,'-  she  said.  "  Tell  him  I  -wrll  be  down  in  five 
minutes." 

She  vralked  to  the  glass,  and  looked  at  herself.  I  dare 
say  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  did  the 
Eame  before  they  were  led  to  the  block ;  and  I  doubt  if 
either  wore  a  more  ghostly  face  at  that  horrible  moment 
than  the  girl  standing  there  did  now.  She  smiled  m  bit- 
ter scorn  of  herself,  as  she  saw  the  haggard  face  and  the 
hollow,  bujTiing  ©yes. 

'•  I  look  as  if  I  had  grown  old  in  a  night,"  she  said. 
''  Where  is  the  beauty  now  that  so  many  have  praised 
since  I  came  here  ?" 

She  made  no  attempt  to  change  her  dress,  but  with 
the  loose  white  muslin  wrapper  trailing  in  long  folds 
around  her,  and  girdled  with  scarlet,  she  descended  the 
stall's,  and  entered,  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Paul  Wyndham  was  sitting  at  a  window,  watching 
the  ceaseless  rain  beating  against  the  glass.  At  that  very 
windov/,  looking  out  at  the  silvery  moonlight,  she  herself 
had  sac  a  few  nights  before,  while  she  promised  Captain 
Cavendish  she  would  be  his  wife.  Perhaps  she  thought 
of  this  as  she  swept  past,  a  la  princesse,  just  deigning  to 
acknowledge  her  visitor's  presence  by  her  haughtiest  bow. 
She  could  not  have  acted  otherwise,  had  a  hundred  for- 
tunes depended  on  it,  and  she  did  not  sit  down. 

She  stood  beside  the  mantel,  her  arm,  from  which  the 
flowing  white  sleeves  dropped  away,  leaning  on  it,  her 
eyes  hxcd  steadily  upon  the  man  before  her,  waiting  m 
proud  silence  for  what  he  had  to  say.  Any  one  else 
might  have  been  disconcerted  ;  but  Mr,  Wyndham  did 
not  look  as  if  he  was.  He  looked  pale  and  quiet  and  gen- 
tlemanly, and  entirely  self-possessed. 

"  You  do  not  ask  the  object  of  my  visit,  Miss  Hender- 
son," he  said,  "  although  the  hour  is  unfashionably  early, 
and  the  da}'  not  such  as  callers  usually  select.  But  I  pre- 
Fume  you  have  been  expecting  me,  and  are  not  surprised." 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"  I  thought  that  at  this  hour  I  should  be  most  certain 
of  finding  you  at  home  and  alone.     Therefore,  I  have 


MR.     WTNDHAM'S     WOOING.  817 

come,  knowing  that  after  what  passed  last  night,  the 
8i)oner  we  come  to  an  understanding  the  better." 

"  How  have  you  found  out  my  secret  ?"  she  abruptly 
demanded.     "  You  never  knew  me  in  New  York?" 

"  That  is  my  secret,  Miss  Henderson — I  presume  you 
prefer  being  called  by  that  name — that  is  my  secret,  and 
you  will  pardon  me  if  1  do  not  reveal  it.  I  do  know  your 
secret,  and  it  is  that  knowledge  which  has  brought  me  to 
this  place." 

"  And  knowing  it,  what  use  do  you  intend  to  make 
of  it  ?" 

He  smiled  slightly. 

"  You  are  very  straightforward,  Miss  Henderson.  It 
is  almost  as  easy  getting  on  with  you  as  if  you  were  a 
man.  I  foresee  that  we  shall  settle  this  little  matter  pleas- 
antly, after  all." 

Olive  Henderson  contracted  her  black  brows,  and 
reiterated  her  question. 

"Knowing  this  secret,  sir,  what  use  do  you  intend 
making  of  it  ?" 

"  That  depends  upon  yourself,  madam." 

"How?" 

"  I  shall  keep  yonr  secret.  Miss  Henderson,"  Paul 
Wyndham  said,  "  I  shall  keep  it  inviolably  ;  you  shall 
still  be  Olive  Henderson,  heiress  of  Redmon,  the  lady 
paramount  of  Speckport,  on  one  condition," 

Her  heart  beat  so  fast  and  thick  that  she  had  to  press 
her  hands  over  it  to  still  its  tumultuous  throbbing.  Her 
hollow,  burning  black  eyes  never  left  his  face,  they  were 
strained  there  in  suspense  too  intense  for  words. 

"  You  are  aware.  Miss  Hendei-son,"  the  cold,  clear, 
yet  melodious  voice  of  Fanl  Wyndham  went  on,  "  of  the 
position  in  which  you  stand.  You  have  usurped  the  place 
of  another — your  stepsister — ^you  have  assumed  a  name 
which  does  not  belong  to  you,  and  you  have  come  here  to 
dupe  the  people  of  this  place,  to  pass  yourself  oH  fur  what 
you  are  not,  and  possess  yourself  of  wealth  to  which  you 
have  no  shadow  of  claim.  In  doin^  this.  Miss  Hender- 
son, you  must  be  aware  you  are  guilty  of  a  felony,  pun- 
ishable by  law,  punishable  by  tnal,  imprisonment,  and 


318  MR.     WTNDHAM'S     WOOING. 

life-long  disgrace.  All  tliis  jou  know,  and  knowing  it, 
must  be  aware  how  entirely  and  irrevocablj  you  are  in 
my  power !" 

"  Irrevocably  and  completely  in  my  power,"  the  piti- 
less voice  went  on,  "  you  see  it  youi-self  as  well  as  I.  You 
know  also  much  better  than  I  do,  the  misery,  the  shame, 
the  degradation  exposure  must  bring.  Your  name  pub- 
lished, your  crime  published  far  and  wide,  yourself  the 
scoff  and  jeer  of  every  boor  in  the  town,  the  horrors  of  a 
jail,  of  a  criminal  cell,  of  a  public  trial  before  gaping 
thousands,  of " 

Paul  Wyndhara  stopped.  It  was  not  a  cry  she  had 
uttered,  but  a  gasping  sob,  telling  more  of  the  unutterable 
agony,  the  intense  misery  she  was  suffering,  than  any  wild 
outbreak  of  womanly  shrieks.  She  put  out  her  hands 
with  a  passionate  cry. 

Paul  "Wyndham  looked  at  the  disturbed,  crouching 
form,  convulsed  with  despairing  agony,  with  Heaven  only 
knows  liow  much  of  pity  in  his  face. 

"  Miss  Henderson !  Miss  Henderson !"  he  cried,  "  1 
did  not  mean — I  did  not  think  what  I  said  would  affect 
you  like  this.  I  only  told  you  what  might  be,  but  it 
never  will  be,  for  you  will  listen  to  what  I  have  yet  to 
say,  and  I  never  will  reveal  your  secret  to  a  living  soul !" 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  as  a  hunted 
stag  might,  with  the  knife  at  its  throat. 

"  Mr.  Wyndham,"  she  said,  with  that  dignity  which 
is  born  of  extreme  misery,  "  what  have  I  ever  done  to 
you  that  you  should  come  here  and  torment  me  like 
this  ?" 

Paul  Wyndham  turned  away  from  that  reproachful 
face,  with  a  dark  shadow  on  his  own. 

"  Heaven  knows.  Miss  Heudei"son,  I  hate  the  necessity 
which  compels  me  to  cause  you  this  pain,  but  it  is  a 
necessity,  and  I  must  do  it ;  you  never  have  wronged  me 
— I  have  no  wish  to  give  you  a  moment's  suffering,  but  a 
fatality  against  which  I  am  powerless,  urges  me  on.  I 
hate  myself  for  what  I  am  doing — but  what  can  I  do — 
■what  can  I  do  ?" 

He  seemed  to  ask  himself  the  question,  as  he  sprang 


ME.     W7NDIIAM'8     WOOING.  31J) 

up  and  took,  like  herself,  to  walking  excidedly  up  and 
down.  His  face  was  so  darkly  troubled  that  Olive  Hen- 
dei-sou  looked  at  him  with  searching,  wonderin<:  eyes. 

"  1  do  not  undei-stand  you,"  slie  said,  chilled  with  a 
new  tear,  "  does  any  one  but  yourself  know  niy  secret?" 

She  was  still  sitting,  and  never  ceasing  to  watch  iiiin. 
Paul  Wyndhaui  leaned  against  the  mantel,  as  she  had 
done  a  moment  before,  and  looked  down  at  iier. 

"Miss  Henderson,  I  can  tell  you  nothing  but  that 
your  secret  is  safe  with  me  if  you  will  comply  with  the 
condition  I  have  to  name.  Yon  may  trust  me;  1  shall 
never  reveal  it !" 

"  And  that  condition  is " 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Olive  could  have 
counted  rhe  raindrops  on  the  window  or  the  loud  beating 
of  her  heart. 

Paul  Wyndham's  large,  clear,  bright  gi^ay  eyes  stead- 
ily mot  lier  own. 

"  The  condition  is,  that  you  become  my  wife. ' 

She  gave  a  cry,  she  was  so  utterly  astonished,  and  sat 
staring  at  liim,  speechless. 

"Your — wile!"  she  slowly  said,  when  her  returned 
senses  enabled  her  to  speak. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Henderson,  my  wife  !  I  am  no  more  m- 
Bonsible  to  the  power  of  wealth  than  you  are.  You  have 
risked  everything  for  the  future ;  you  can  only  hold  il 
now,  on  condition  of  becomhig  my  wife !" 

Olive  Uendei-son  rose  up,  white  and  defiant  "  I  never 
will!"  she  said,  "I  never  will!  I  will  lose  every  shiUiug 
of  it,  I  will  die  before  I  consent !" 

"Oh,  no!"  Mr.  Wyndham  said,  quietW,"!  do  not 
think  you  will,  when  you  come  to  reflect.  It  is  not  pleas- 
ant to  die  when  one  is  young  and  handsome  and  prosper- 
ous, particularly  if  one  has  not  been  very  good,  and  not 
at  all  sure  of  going  to  Heaven.  You  wiU  not  die,  Mi63 
Henderson  ;  you  wi'l  keep  the  fortune  and  marry  me. 

"  I  never  will !"  she  vehemently  cried  ;  "  what  if  1  told 
yon  my  stepsister,  the  real  Olivb  Henderson,  were  alive, 
that  I  have  seen  her  lately,  and  tliat  she  has  made  over 
everything  to  me.     What  if  1  told  you  this  i" 


320  MR.     WTNDEAM'S     WOOINCf. 

He  smiled  incredulously. 

"  You  do  not  believe  me,  but  I  swear  to  you  I  state 
the  truth.  Olive  Hendereon  lives,  though  1  thought  her 
dead ;  and  I  have  seen  her,  I  tell  you,  and  she  has  con- 
Rented  to  my  keeping  all." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham  quietly,  "  supposing,  for 
argument's  sake,  what  you  say  to  be  true,  it  does  not  alter 
your  position  in  the  least.  Should  I  go  to  a  lawyer  and 
tell  him  your  story,  the  arrest,  the  exposure,  the  disgrace  all 
follow  as  inevitably  as  ever.  The  rightful  heiress  may,  as 
you  say,  be  alive,  and  willing  you  should  usurp  her  birth- 
right, though  it  does  not  sound  very  likely ;  but  even  if 
60,  Harriet  Wade  is  toQ  proud  a  woman  to  incur  life-long 
disgrace  and  humiliation,  when  she  can  avert  it  so 
eafiily." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  dropped  into  her  seat,  and 
laid  her  hand  on  a  table  near.  The  action,  the  attitude, 
told  far  more  than  words,  of  the  cold,  dark  despair  thick- 
ening around  her. 

She  never  lifted  her  head.  She  was  suffering,  as  other 
women  have  suffered,  dumbly. 

"  In  asking  you  to  be  my  wife,  "Miss  Hendei*son," 
Mr.  Wyndham  still  continued,  "  I  make  no  pretense  of 
being  in  love  with  you  myself.  I  am  not — I  may  as  well 
tell  you  plainly — and  I  shall  never  ask  love  fix)m  you.  In 
Bfecoming  my  wife,  you  will  go  through  a  legal  ceremony 
that  will  mean  nothing.  I  shall  never  intnide  upon  you 
one  single  moment  out  of  all  the  twenty-four  hours,  unless 
you  desire  it,  or  when  the  presence  of  others  makes  our 
being  together  unavoidable.  We  may  dwell  under  the 
same  roof,  and  yet  live  as  far  apart  as  if  hemispheres 
divided  us.  Believe  me,  I  shall  not  force  myself  upon 
you  against  your  will ;  but  for  your  own  sake.  Miss  Ilen- 
dereon,  and  to  still  the  whispers  of  busy  tongues,  it  would 
be  as  well  to  keep  your  sentiments  regarding  me  to  your- 
self, as  well  we  should  be  apparently  on  cordial  terms. 
Are  you  listening.  Miss  Hendei-son  ?" 

He  really  thought  she  was  not.  She  was  lying  so  still, 
60  rigid,  with  her  poor  white  face  on  the  table,  and  the 
thick    coils    of    her    dead-black    hair    unloosing    them- 


MR.     WTNDHAM'S     WOOING.  821 

selves,  and  trailing  and  twining  about  her  like  black 
snakes.  She  was  not  hysterical  now  ;  she  was  lying  there 
in  a  sort  of  dumb  anguish,  that  none  but  very  proud  and 
sensitive  hearts,  crushed  to  the  very  dust  in  shame  and 
humiliation,  can  ever  feel. 

"  Miss  Henderson,"  Mr.  Wyndham  repeated,  looking 
at  the  drooping,  girlish  tigure,  its  very  attitude  speaking 
80  much  of  supreme  misery,  ''I  am  waiting  for  my 
answer." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  with  spmething 
the  look  of  a  deer  at  bay. 

"  Have  you  no  pity  V  she  said.  "  Will  you  not  spare 
me?  I  am  only  a  girl,  alone  in  the  world,  and  you  might 
pity  me  and  be  merciful.  I  have  done  wrong,  I  know, 
but  Heaven  alone  knows  what  I  have  suffered  from, 
poverty,  and  the  degradation  it  inevitably  entails.  I  was 
tempted,  and  1  yielded ;  but  I  think  I  never  was  so 
miserable  in  the  worst  days  of  my  suffering  as  I  have 
been  at  times  since  I  came  here.  1  am  not  good,  1  know, 
but  I  am  not  used  to  wickedness  and  plotting  like  this, 
and  I  think  I  am  the  most  miserable  creature  on  the  face 
of  this  wide  earth.  But  I  never  wronged  you,  sir;  and 
you  might  pity  lue  and  spare  me." 

Her  head  dropped  down  again  with  a  sort  of  sob,  and 
the  pititul   pleading  was  touching  to   hear  from   those 

f)roud  lips.  If  Paul  Wyndham  had  possessed  the  hardest 
leart  that  ever  beat  in  a  man's  breast  since  the  days  of 
Nero,  I  think  it  must  have  been  touched  by  the  sight  of 
that  haughty  spirit  so  bowed  and  crushed  before  him.  His 
face  showed  no  sign  of  whatcer  he  might  feel,  but  his 
clear  voice  shook  a  little  as  he  replied. 

"  It  is  of  little  use,  ^liss  Henderson,  for  me  to  say  how 
deeply  1  do  pity  you — how  sorely  agaiust  my  will  1  wa^e 
this  unequal  warfare,  since  the  battle  must  go  on  all  the 
same,  it  would  only  sound  like  mockery  were  I  to  say 
how  grieved  1  am  to  give  you  this  pain,  since  I  should 
still  remain  inexorable." 

"  Will  nothing  bribe  you  ?"   she  asked.     "  Half  th« 

wealth  I  possess  shall  be  yours  if " 

14* 


323  MB.     WTNDHAM'S     WOOIMO. 

She  had  lifted  her  face  ag'ain  in  eager  hopefulness, 
but  he  interrupted  with  a  gesture. 

"  I  said  I  was  inexorable,  Miss  Henderson,  and  I  must 
repeat  it.  Besides,"  he  added,  with  a  sligiit  smile,  that 
showed  how  credulous  he  was  about  the  story,  "  the  real 
heiress  though  she  might  make  over  the  fortune  to  you, 
might  object  to  yDur  handing  the  half  of  it  over  to  a 
stranger.  No,  Miss  Henderson,  there  is  only  the  one 
alternative — be  my  wife,  or  else " 

"  Or  else  you  will  tell  all?" 

He  did  not  speak.  He  stood,  quietly  waiting  his  an- 
swer— quiet,  but  very  inflexible. 

Olive  rose  up  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Must  you  have  your  answer  now  ?"  she  asked,  "  or 
will  you  not  even  give  me  a  few  hours  respite  to  think  it 
over?" 

' '  As  many  as  you  please.  Miss  Henderson." 

"Then  you  shall  have  it  to-night,"  she  said,  with 
strange,  cold  calmness.  "  I  promised  Miss  Blair  to  go  to 
the  theater — ^you  will  see  me  there,  and  shall  have  your 
answer." 

Mr,  Wyndham  bowed,  and  with  a  simple  "Good 
morning,"  walked  out  of  the  room.  As  he  shut  the  door 
behind  him,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  shutting  Olive 
Henderson  in  a  living  tomb,  and  he  her  jailer. 

"  Poor  girl  I  poor  girl !"  he  was  thinking,  as  he  put 
on  his  overcoat;  "what  a  villain  I  must  seem  in  her 
eyes,  and  what  a  villain  1  am,  ever  to  have  consented  to 
this.  But  it  is  only  retribution  after  all — one  ill  turn 
deserves  another." 

Paul  Wyndham  walked  to  his  hotel  through  the 
drenching  rain  and  cold  sea-Mnnd,  and  Olive  Henderson 
listened  to  the  tumult  of  the  storm,  with  another  storm 
quite  as  tumultuous  in  her  own  breast. 

The  play  that  night  was  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons."  There 
is  only  one  theater  in  Speckport,  so  Mr.  "V^yndhanl  was 
no't  likely  to  get  bewildered  in  his  search.  The  first  act  was 
half  over  when  he  came  in,  and  looked  round  the  dress  circle, 
and  down  in  the  orchestra  stalls.  Li  the  glare  of  the  gas- 
light Olive  Henderson  looked  superb.   Never  had  her  mag- 


MR.     WYNDEAM'8     WOOTNO.  828 

nificent  black  eyes  shone  with  such  streaming  luster  as  to- 
night, and  a  crimson  glow,  quite  foreign  to  her  usual  com- 
plexion, boamed  on  either  cheek — the  crimson  glow,  rouge, 
worn  for  the  lirst  time  in  her  life ;  and  though  she  was  a  New 
York  lady,  she  had  the  grace  to  be  ashamed  of  the  paint, 
and  wear  a  thin  black  vail  over  her  face.  She  took  her 
eyes  off  Mademoiselle  Pauline  for  a  moment,  to  iix  them 
on  Mr.  Wyndhaui,  who  came  along  to  pay  his  respects, 
and  to  find  a  seat  tlirectly  behind  that  of  the  heiress,  but 
she  only  bent  her  head  in  very  distant  acknowledgment 
of  his  presence,  and  looked  at  Pauline  again. 

The  curtain  fell  on  the  lirst  act.  Miss  lIendei*son  was 
very  thirsty — that  feverish  thii-st  had  not  left  her  yet,  and 
Captain  Cavendish  went  out  for  a  glass  of  ice-water. 
Laura  was  busy  chattering  to  Mr.  Blake,  and  Paul  Wynd- 
ham  bent  forward  and  spoke  to  the  heiress,  who  never 
turned  her  head. 

"  I  have  come  for  my  answer.  Miss  Hendereon,"  he 
said ;  "  it  is  '  Yes,'  I  know." 

"It  is  'Yes,' Mr.  Wyndham,  and,  with  my  consent, 
take  the  knowledge  that  1  hate  and  despise  you  more  than 
any  other  creature  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

She  never  turned  while  saying  this.  She  stared  straight 
before  her  at  the  row  of  gleaming  footlights.  The  music 
was  croaking  out,  every  one  was  talking  busily,  and  not 
one  of  the^  young  ladies  who  looked  enviously  at  the 
beautiful  and"  brilliant  heiress,  nor  tlie  men  who  worshiped 
her  at  a  distance,  and  who  hated  the  young  New  Yorker 
for  the  pTivilege  he  enjoj'^ed  of  talldng  to  her — not  one  of 
them  all  dreamed  ever" so  faintly  of  that  other  play  being 
enacted  off  the  stage. 

Captain  Cavendish  came  back  with  the  water,  the  play 
went  on,  but  I  doubt  if  Olive  Henderson  heard  a  word, 
or  knew  whether  they  were  playing  "Othello"  or  the 
"Lady  of  Lyons,"  but  none  of  the  others  knew  that;  tiiat 
serviceable  irkisk,  the  human  face,  is  a  very  good  screen 
for  the  heart. 

The  play  was  over,  and  they  were  all  going  out.  Mr. 
"Wyndham  had  not  addressed  her  since,  but  she  knew  he 
was  behind  her  all  the  time,  and  she  knew  nothing  else. 


324  MR.     WTNDEAH'S     WEDDING. 

He  was  bj  her  side  as  thej  descended  the  stairs,  and  the 
cold  night-wind  struck  them  on  the  face.  She  was  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  Captain  Cavendish,  but  how  was  that  con- 
quering hero  to  know  it  was  for  the  last  time  \ 

"  I  will  have  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  you  to-morrow, 
-Miss  Henderson,"  he  distinctly  said,  as  he  bowed  an  adieu 
and  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 

ME.  WYNDHAM'S  wedding. 

APTAIN  CAYEjSTDISH,  sitting  at  the  window 
of  his  room  in  the  hotel,  stared  at  the  red  sun- 
set with  a  clouded  face  and  a  gloomy  abstrac- 
tion of  manner,  that  told  how  utterly  its  lurid 
glory  was  lost  upon  him. 
Captain  Cavendish  had  been  sitting  there  since  four 
in  the  afternoon,  thinking  this  over  and  over  again,  and 
never  able  to  get  beyond  it.  His  day  of  retribution  had 
come.  He  was  feeling  the  torture  he  had  so  often  and 
80  heartlessly  made  others  feel ;  he  was  learning  what  it 
meant  to  be  jilted  in  cold  blood.  Olive  Henderson  had 
turned  out  the  veriest,  the  most  capricious,  the  most 
heartless  of  flirts,  and  Captain  Cavendish  foimd  himself 
incontinently  snubbed  !  He  had  asked  for  no  explanation 
yet,  but  the  climax  had  come  to-day.  He  had  ridden 
over  to  escort  the  heii'ess  on  her  breezy  morning  gallop, 
and  had  found  Mr.  Wyndham  just  assisting  her  into  the 
saddle.  She  had  bowed  distantly  to  him,  cut  her  horse 
a  stinging  blow  across  the  neck,  and  had  galloped  otf, 
with  Paul  Wyndham  close  beside  her.  Catty  Clowrie 
looked  out  of  the  cottage  window,  and  laughed  a  voice- 
less laugh,  to  see  the  captain's  blank  consternation. 

"  Tit  for  tat !"  Catty  said ;  ''you  are  getting  paid  back 
in  youi'  own  coin,  Captain  George  Cavendish  r 


MB.      WTNDHAM'S     WEDDING.  835 

So,  whHe  tho  fierce  red  sun  blazed  itself  out  in  the 
pui'ple  arch,  and  the  big  round  yellow  moon  rose  up,  like 
another  Vcnns,  out  of  the  bluish-black  bay,  Captain 
Cavendish  sat  at  his  window,  telling  the  same  refrain 
over  and  over  in  his  mind,  as  pei'severingly  as  ever  any 
holy  monk  told  the  Ave  Maria  on  his  rosary: — "What 
has  changed  her  ?  what  has  changed  her  ?  what  has 
changed  her?" 

The  moon  was  high  in  the  sky  before  he  roused  him- 
self from  his  long  and  somber  musing-lit,  and,  pulling 
out  his  watch,  looked  at  the  hour. 

"  Half -past  seven,"  he  said ;  "  they  were  to  start  at 
eight,  and  she  promised  to  go.  I  shall  ask  for  an  ex- 
planation to-night." 

He  rang  for  his  servant,  and  desired  that  young  man, 
when  he  appeared,  to  fetch  him  his  overcoat.  Mr.  John- 
ston brouudit  that  garment,  and  assisted  his  master  into  it, 
and  the  captain  put  on  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  with  his 
cane  under  his  arm  (for,  of  coui-sc,  ;is  an  othcer  of  the 
British  army,  it  was  his  duty  at  all  times  to  cari-y  a  cane 
under  his  arm),  he  set  off  for  the  cottage  of  my  Lady 
Caprice. 

The  whole  front  of  the  pretty  cottage  was  in  a  state 
of  illumination,  as  he  opened  the  little  gate  and  walked 
up  the  gravel  path,  and  men's  shadows  moved  on  the 
curtained  windows  as  he  rang  the  bell.  Rosie,  vviih  pink 
ribbons  in  her  hair,  and  her  Sunday  dress  on,  opened  the 
door  and  showed  him  into  the  drawin^^-room. 

"  I'll  tell  Miss  Olive  you're  here,''  she  said  ;  "  she  is 
engaged  with  company  just  now." 

Captain  Cavendish  said  nothing.  Ho  walked  over  to 
the  low  chimney-piece,  and  leaned  moodily  against  it,  as 
Paul  Wyndham  had  done  that  rainy  morning,  little 
better  than  a  week  before.  He  had  seen  something  as 
he  came  in  that  had  not  tended  to  raise  his  spirits.  The 
dining-room  door  stood  half-open,  and  glancing  in  as  he 
passetl,  he  perceived  that  Miss  Henderson  had  given  a 
dinner-party,  and  that  the  company  was  still  lingerina 
ai-ound  the  table.  He  saw  the  Rev.  Augustus  Tod  and 
his  sister — and  the  Tods  were  the  very  cream  of  Speck- 


32G  MR.     WTNDEAM'S     WEDDING. 

port  society — Major  and  Mrs.  Wlieatlj,  and  Mr.  Paul 
\Vyudhain.  That  was  all ;  but  he,  her  betrothed  hus* 
band,  her  accepted  suitor,  had  known  nothing  of  it — had 
never  been  invited  ! 

Captain  Cavendish,  lemming  against  the  mantel,  listened 
to  the  laughter,  and  pleasant  mingUng  of  voices,  and  the 
jingling  of  glasses  in  the  dining-room,  and  he  could 
plainly  distinguish  the  musical  laughter  of  Olive,  and 
her  clear  voice  as  she  talked  to  her  guests.  He  stood 
there  for  upward  of  half  an  hour,  raging  with  inward 
fury,  all  the  more  fierce  for  having  to  be  suppressed. 
Then  he  heard  the  dining-room  door  open,  a  rustle  of 
silk  in  the  passage,  an  odor  of  delicate  perfume  in  the  air, 
and  then  the  drawing-room  door  opened. 

Miss  Henderson  swept  into  the  room,  bowing  and 
pjiiiling  lis  she  passed  him,  and  sinking  gracefully  into  a 
low  violet-velvet  chair,  her  rosy  skirts  and  misty  white 
lace  floating  aU  about  her  like  pink  and  wliite  clouds,  and 
she  looked  up  at  him  with  the  same  glance  of  inquiry  she 
might  have  given  any  lout  of  a  fisherman  in  Speckport, 
had  such  a  person  presumed  to  call. 

"  I  fear  I  intrude.  Miss  Henderson,"  he  said,  suppress- 
ing, as  •  a  gentleman  must,  his  rage.  "  I  did  not  know 
there  was  a  dinner-party  at  the  cottage." 

"  Oh,  it  is  of  no  consequence,"  Miss  Henderson  said, 
carelessly,  toying  with  her  watch  and  chain ;  "  my  guests 
are  all  friends,  who  will  readily  excuse  me.  "Will  you 
not- take  a  seat,  Captain  Cavendish?" 

"  No,  Miss  Hendei-son !  in  a  house  where  I  am  made 
to  feel  I  am  an  intruder  I  must  decline  being  seated.  I 
believe  you  promised  to  join  the  saiUng-party  on  the 
bay  to  night,  but  I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  ask  you  if  you 
ai'C  going  now." 

"  Why,  yes,"  in  the  same  careless  way,  "  it  is  hardly 
probable  I  should  leave  my  friends,  even  for  the  moon- 
light excursion.  Are  you  going?  I  am  sure  you  wiU 
have  a  very  pleasant  time  ;  the  ni^ht  is  lovely." 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  "  I  am  likely  to  have 
a  pleasant  time,  as  I  have  had,  you  must  be  aware,  all 
through  the  pgst  week.     If  you  can  spare  a  few  minuter 


MR.     WTHTDHAM'S     WEDDING.  327 

from  these  very  dear  friends  of  yours,  Miss  Henderson, 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  an  explanation  of  your  conduct." 

"  Of  my  conduct  f  still  in  tliat  careless  way.  '•  llow  ?" 

Captain  Cavendish  choked  down  an  oath,  but  there 
was  a  subdued  fierceness  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke. 

"Miss  Olive  Henderson,  has  it  quite  escaped  your 
memory  that  you  are  my  promised  wife?  It  strikes  me 
your  conduct  of  late  has  not  been  altogether  in  keeping 
with  this  fact.  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  explain 
the  contempt,  the  slights,  the  strangeness  of  your 
conduct  ?" 

"  It  is  very  easily  explained,"  Miss  Henderson  an- 
swered, wdth  supreme  indifference,  which,  whether  real 
or  assumed,  was  very  natural.  "  I  have  repented  that 
rash  promise,  and  now  reta^act  it.  I  have  changed  my 
mind ;  it  is  a  woman's  privilege.  Captain  Cavendish,  and 
here  is  your  engagement  ring." 

She  drew  the  little  golden  circlet  off  her  finger  and 
held  it  out  to  him,  as  she  might  have  returned  it  to  some 
jeweler  who  had  asked  her  to  purchase  it.  He  did  not 
take  it — he  only  stood  looking  at  her,  stunned  1 

"  Olive !" 

"I  am  sorry  to  give  you  pain.  Captain  Cavendish," 
Miss  Henderson  replied  to  that  cry,  still  toying,  with  her 
chain  ;  "  but  you  know  I  told  you  that  night  I  did  not 
love  you,  so  you  ought  not  to  be  surprised.  I  suj^pose  it 
seetns  heartless,  but  then  I  am  heartless  ;  so  what  can  you 
expect." 

She  laughed  to  herself  a  little  hard  laugh,  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  coldly-shining  eyes.  He  wius  white,  white 
even  to  his  lips  ;  for,  remember,  he  loved  this  woman — 
this  cold-blooded  and  capricious  coquette. 

"  Olive !  Olive  !"  was  all  he  could  cry,  and  there  was 
nothing  but  wild  astonishment  and  passionate  reproach  in 
his  voice.  There  was  no  room  for  anger  now.  lie  loved 
her,  and  it  made  him  a  coward,  and  he  faltered  and  broke 
down. 

Olive  Henderson  rose  up  as  if  to  end  the  interview. 

"  Better  we  should  understand  one  another  now,  Cap- 
tain Cavendish,  than  later.     Perhaps  the  day  may  com© 


338  MB.     WTNDEAM'S    WEDDING. 

aud  sooner  than  you  expect,  when  30U  will  thank  me  for 
this,  I  am  not  good,  and  I  should  not  have  made  jou  a 
good  wife,  and  you  liave  more  cause  for  thankfulness 
than  regret.  Here  is  yom*  ring,  and  with  it  I  renounce 
all  claim  to  you  !  We  are  from  henceforth  what  we  were 
before  you  spoke — friends !  In  that  chai-acter  I  shall  at 
all  times  be  happy  to  see  you.  Good  evening,  Captain 
Cavendish  !" 

Captain  Cavendish  walked  back  to  his  hotel  in  a 
stunned  ajid  stupefied  sort  of  way,  much  as  a  man  might 
Avho  had  received  a  heavy  blow  on  the  head,  and  was 
completely  benumbed.  He  had  received  a  blow,  a  most 
unexpected  and  terrible  blow ;  a  blow  so  inconceivable, 
he  could  hardly  realize  it  had  really  fallen.  His  worst 
enemy  could  scarcely  have  wished  him  a  more  miserable 
night  than  that  which  he  spent,  ceaselessly  walking  his 
room,  and  acting  over  and  over  again  the  scene  that  had 
80  lately  passed.  O  Nathalie  Marsh !  could  you  have 
risen  up  in  spirit  before  him  then,  surely  you  would  have 
thought  youreelf  completely  avenged. 

Was  Miss  Olive  Henderson,  lying  in  luxurious  ease 
among  the  satin  pillows  of  a  lounge  in  the  dining-room, 
next  moriling, '  wearing  a  most  becoming  matin  neglige, 
and  listlessly  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  novel,-  thinking 
of  her  rejected  lover,  I  wonder  ?  Catty  Clowrie,  sitting 
sewing  industriously  at  the  window — for  Catty  was  not 
above  doing  plain  sewing  for  the  heiress — and  watching 
her  stealthily  between  the  stitches,  wondered  if  she  were 
really  reading,  or  only  thinking,  as  she  lay  there,  turning 
over  the  leaves  with  restless  fingers,  and  jerkiuii  out  her 
pretty  little  watch  perpetually  to  look  at  the  liour.  It 
was  very  early,  only  nine  o'clock,  too  soon  for  her  to  ex; 
peet  visitors — even  that  indefatigable  Mr.  Wyndhamj 
who  came  like  clockwork  every  day,  could  hardly  have 
made  his  appearance  so  early.  Catty,  thinking  this, 
stopped  suddenly,  for  a  gentleman  was  ringing  the  door- 
bell— a  gentleman  with  a  white,  fierce  f{ice,  and  a  look 
about  him,  altogether.  Miss  Clowrie  had  never  seen  hira 
wear  before.     OUve  sat  up  and  looked  at  Catty. 

"Who  is  it P  she  asked. 


MH.     V/YNDHAM'S     WEDDIKG.  820 

"  Captain  Cavendish." 

The  black  brow  contracted  suddenly,  and  Catty  saw  it 
She,  as  -well  as  all  Speckport,  knew  there  was  a  breach 
between  the  two,  and  she  and  aU  Speckport  set  Mr 
Wyndham  do^\Ti  as  the  cause. 

Olive  Hendci-son  rose  np,  with  her  brows  still  con- 
tracted, and^walked  into  the  drawing-room.  She  shut  the 
door  behind  her ;  and  oh  !  what  would  not  Catty  Clowrie 
have  given  had  the  painted  panels  of  that  door  been  clear 
glass,  that  she  miglit  see  what  was  going  on.  She  could 
hear,  not  their  words,  but  the  voice  of  the  captain,  pas- 
sionate and  then  reproachful,  then  pleading,  then  passion- 
ately angry  again.  Once  she  crept  to  the  door;  it  was 
after  an  unusually  vehement  outburst  on  his  ♦part ;  and 
when  her  curiosity  was  excited  beyond  all  bounds,  she 
affixed  her  ear  to  the  keyhole. 

"It  hardly  becomes  you.  Captain  Cavendish,"  she 
heard  the  voice  say,  in  a  tone  of  cold  disdain ;  "  it  does 
not  become  you  to  talk  like  this  of  infidelity.  If  all  tales 
be  true,  you  have  been  rather  faithless  yourself  in  your 
time.  People  who  live  in  glass  houses  are  always  the 
readiest  to  throw  stones,  I  tliink !" 

Catty  dared  not  stay,  lest  they  should  suddenly  open 
the  door,  and  went  back  to  her  work. 

"  She  has  refused  him !"  she  thought.  "  What  new 
mystery  is  this  ?'' 

Had  Miss  Clowrie  been  able  to  look  into  the  room, 
she  would  have  seen  Captain  Cavendish  pacing  it  like  a 
caged  tiger,  and  Miss  Henderson  standing  up  and  leaning 
against  the  mantel,  and  looking  icily  at  him  out  of  her 
great  black  eyes.  He  stopjjed  abmptly  before  her,  con- 
trolling his  passion,  and  steadfastly  returned  her  gaze. 

"  And  is  it  for  Mr.  Paul  Wyndham,"  he  asked,  with 
sneering  em])liasi8,  "  the  little  j)itiful  quill-driver,  that  I 
am  rejected?" 

Tlie  black  eyes  of  Olive  Henderson  flashed  flame  at 
the  gibing  tone. 

"  Yes !"  she  flashed,  impetuously,  "  it  is  for  Mr.  Paul 
Wyndhajn,  whose  name  is  a  household  word  in  lands 


380  MR.     WTNDEAM'B     WEDDING. 

where  he  has  ii3ver  been — whc  will  be  remembered  by 

thousands  when  you  are  dead  and  forgotten !" 

If  Captain  Cavendish  could,  with  any  propriety,  have 
knocked  the  defiant  young  lady  down  at  that  moment,  I 
think  he  would  have  done  it.  He  set  his  strong  white 
teeth,  and  clenched  his  hands,  in  the  impotence  of  h}3 
fury. 

"  And  this  insult,  am  I  to  understand,  is  your  final 
answer  ?" 

"  The  answer  is  final,"  Olive  said,  frigidly.  "  The  in- 
sult, if  such  it  bo,  you  provoked  yourself,  by  fii*st  insult- 
ing me.  I  wished  to  part  friends  with  you ;  if  you  prefer 
v/e  should  part  enemies,  it  is  immaterial  to  me.  I  do  not 
know  why  you  have  come  to  make  this  scene  this  morn- 
ing, when  you  received  your  answer  last  night." 

The  morning  sunshine  was  streaming  brightly  into  the 
room ;  but,  as  she  spoke,  it  was  suddenly  darkened,  and 
Paid  Wyndham,  riding  past,  stnmg  his  hci'se  at  the  door. 
An  instant  after.  Catty  Clowrie  saw  Captain  Cavendish 
leave  the  house,  his  hat  slouched  over  his  eyes,  and  stride 
awiiy  as  if  shod  with  seven-league  boots.  #  Mr.  Wyndham 
liad  come  to  escort  Miss  Henderson  on  her  customary 
morning-ride  to  Redmon,  and  Olive  ran  up-stairs  to  put 
oi  her  liding-habit.  But  not  until  Catty  had  seen  how 
haughtily  cold  her  reception  of  Mr.  "Wyndham  was,  and 
how  ghostly  pale  she  looked  as  she  ran  up-staii-s. 

Catty  Clowrie  was  not  the  only  young  lady  in  Speck- 

Eort  puzzled  by  Miss  Henderson's  remarkable  conduct, 
aura  Blair  was  bothering  her  poor  li;tle  brain  with 
the  enigma,  and  could  not  solve  it,  though  she  tried  ever 
so. 

"  Oily,  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  perplexed  tone,  when  elo 
came  to  the  cottage  next  day,  and  up  in  Olive  -:  room 
seated  herself  for  a  confidential  cliat,  "  have  you  quarreled 
with  Captain  Cavendish  ?" 

Olive  was  reclining  in  a  vast  Sleepy  Hollow  of  an  arm- 
chair, looking  pale  and  fagged  ;  for  she  had  been  at  a  ball 
the  previous  night,  and  lay  with  her  hands  folded  listless- 
ly in  her  lap,  and  tlie  lazy  lids  hidlag  the  splendor  of  hej 


MH.     WTNDHAM'S     WEDDING.  831 

eyes.  She  hardly  took  the  trouble  to-  lift  these  heavy  eye- 
lids, as  she  replied : 

"No— yes.     Why?"  • 

"  Because,  he's  gone  away,  dear !  T  thought  you  knew 
it.  lie  has  gone  off  on  leave  of  absence  to  Canada,  I 
believe." 

"  Indeed !"  Miss  Henderson  said,  indifferently.  "  When 
did  he  go?" 

"He  left  in. the  steamer  for  Portland,  Maine,  this 
morning.  Oily,  dearest,  will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  is 
all  about  ?" 

"  All  what  is  about?"  asked  Olive,  impatiently. 

Lawra  looked  frightened ;  she  always  got  scai'ed  when 
Miss  Henderson's  big  black  eyes  flashed. 

"  You  won't  be  angry,  my  darling  Oily  ?  but  I  thought 
— every  one  thought — you  were  going  to  many  Captain 
Cavendish." 

"  Did  they  ?  Then  it's  a  pity  '  every  one '  must  be 
disuiDpointed,  for  I  am  not  going  to  marry  Captain 
Cavendish." 

Laura  sat  silent  after  this  quencher.  She  was  seated 
on  a  low  stool  at  Jier  friend's  feet,  with  her  brown  head 
lying  on  her  lap.  The  heiress  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
pretty  face. 

"  My  poor,  silly,  inquisitive  little  Laura !"  she  said, 
"you  would  like  a  wedding,  1  know.  You  have  a  fem- 
inine love  of  bridal-vails  and  orange-wreaths,  and  you 
would  like  to  look  pretty  in  white  silk  and  Honiton  lace, 
as  my  bridemaid — wouldn't  you,  now  ?" 

""Yes,"  said  Miss  Blair. 

"  Well,  then,  Laura,  you  shall  I" 

Laura  started  up,  and  stared. 

"AVhat?" 

"I  say,"  repeated  Olive,  quietly,  "you  shall  be  grati- 
fied. You  shall  wear  the  white  silk  and  the  Honiton  lace, 
my  dear,  and  be  first  bridemaid,  for  I  am  going  to  be 
married !" 

Laura  Blair  clasped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Oily!  and  to  Mr.  Wyndhaml" 

"  Yes;  to  Mr.  Wyndham.'*^ 


832  ME.     WTNDHAM'a     WEDDING. 

Laura  sat  like  one  transfixed,  digesting  tlie  news. 
Somehow,  she  was  not  so  mnch  surprised,  but  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  intelligence  stunned  lier. 

Olive  Henderson  laughed  outright  as  she  looked  at 
her. 

"  Well,  Miss  Blair,"  she  said,  "  if  I  had  told  you  I 
had  committed  a  murder,  and  was  going  to  be  hanged  for 
it,  you  could  hardly  look  more  aghast !  Pray,  is  there 
anything  so  very  terrible  in  my  marrying  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham  ?" 

"  It's  not  that,"  said  Laura,  recovering  herself  slow- 
ly, "but  the  news  came  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly, 
that " 

"  Unexpectedly !  Is  it  possible,  Laura,  Speckport 
has  not  decided  before  now  I  should  marjy  Mr.  Wynd- 
hamP 

"  Speckport  doesn't  know  what  to  think,"  said  Laura  ; 
"  it  decided  upon  your  marriage  with  Captain  Cavendish  ; 
it  said  that  you  were  engaged,  and  that  all  was  settled, 
when,  lo!  this  Mr.  Wyndham  appears,  and  presto'  all  is 
changed.  Captain  Cavendish  flies  out  of  the  country, 
and  Mr.  Wyndham  becomes  the  hero  of  the  story.  Speck- 
port never  was  so  pleased  before ;  you  are  as  erratic  as  a 
comet,  Miss  Henderson,  and  it  is  as  useless  trying  to  ac- 
count for  your  vagaries." 

"I  am  glad  Speckport  has  found  that  out.  AVell, 
Laura,  you  will  be  bridemaid  ?" 

"  Of  course.  Oh^how  strange  it  all  seems !  When  is 
it  to  come  off?" 

"What,  the  wedding?  Oh,  near  the  end  of  next 
month,  I  believe.  Mr.  Wyndham,  like  any  other  ardent 
lover,  objects  to  long  engagements." 

She  laughed,  as  she  spoke,  a  little  disdainful  laugh, 
that  made  Laura  fix  her  brown  eyes  thoughtfully  on  her 
face. 

"Oily — don't  be  angry,  please — do  you  love  Mt. 
Wyndham?" 

"  Of  course,  you  silly  child,"  the  heiress  laughed,  care- 
lessly, "  if  not,  should  I  marry  him  ?  You  have  read  a 
great  many  novels,  my  Laura,  of  the  high-pressure  school, 


MR.     WTKDHAM'S     WEDDING.  333 

and  have  formed  your  own  ideas  of  lovers  from  the  rap- 
turons  proceedings  therein  recorded.  But  Mr.  Wyndham 
and  I  are  not  roiTiantic ;  it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  be,  and 
all  the  romance  in  his  he  reserves  as  his  stock-in-trade  for 
his  books,  and  has  none  left  for  this  prosy  every-day  life. 
He  is  sufficiently  well-looking,  he  is  gentlemanly  and  at- 
tentive, and  he  is  famous,  and  he  lias  asked  me  to  marry 
him,  and  I  have  said  yes ;  and  I  will  do  it,  too,  if  I  don't 
change  my  mind  before  the  day  comes." 

"Does  Mr.  Wyndham  love  you,  Ollv?"  she  asked, 
after  a  long,  grave  pause,  during  which  Olive  had  been 
humming  an  opera  air. 

"  Of  course,  my  love !     How  can  he  help  it  ?" 

"  And  you  are  really  going  to  be  married  so  soon,  and 
to  this  stranger  ?     Oh,  Oily !  take  cai*e !" 

"  You  absurd  Laura !  Take  care  of  what  ?  Are  you 
afraid  Mr.  Wyndham  will  beat  rae  after  the  magic  words 
are  spoken  ?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  suddenness  of  it  all  that  makes  me 
feel  so  strange  about  it.  I  like  Mr.  Wyndham  very  much, 
and  I  think  his  books  are  lovel}'!  I  dare  say  you  will  be 
very  happy  with  him,  after  all.  How  many  bridemaids 
are  you  going  to  liave,  and  what  are  we  to  wear  ?"     . 

After  this  truly  feminine  turn  to  the  convei-sation,  love 
and  happiness  were  forgotten  in  the  discussion  of  silks 
and  moire  antiques,  and  the  rival  merits  of  pink  or  Avhite 
for  the  bridemaids'  bonnets.  They  were  a  very  long  time 
deciding ;  for  somehow  Olive  Henderson,  with  all  her 
inborn  love  of  dress,  did  not  seem  to  take  much  interest 
in  the  matter. 

"  We'll  settle  it  all  again,  Laura,"  she  said,  impaticutly, 
"  there's  no  hurry — six  weeks  is  a  long  time.  Come,  and 
let  us  have  a  drive." 

As  the  young  ladies  entered  the  little  pony-carriage, 
Mr.  Wyndham  rode  up  on  his  bay,  looking  his  best,  as 
good  riders  always  do  on  hoi*seback.  Laura,  who  was  on 
very  friendly,  not  to  say  familiar,  terms  with  the  young 
author,  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Accept  my  congratulations,"  she  said,  "  I  am  to  l)e 
bridemaid-in-chief  on  the  happy  occasion;  and,  next  to 


334  MB.     WYNDHAM'S     WEDDING. 

being  married  myself,  there  is  nothing  we  girls  like  better 
than  that !" 

Mr.  Wyndham  smiled,  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips  gal- 
lantly, and  made  some  complimentary  reply;  but  there 
v/as  no  raptnre  in  his  face,  Laura  noticed,  even  although 
J  lis  bride-elect,  in  the  dark  splendor  of  her  beauty,  sat  be- 
iore  iiim  among  the  rich  cusliions,  like  an  Egyptian  queen. 

'•  lie  does  not  love  her,"  thought  Laura ;  "  he  is  like 
all  the  rest ;  he  wants  to  marry  her  because  she  is  hand- 
some, and  the  fashion,  and  the  heiress  of  Kedmon.  I 
Avonder,  if  I  were  in  her  place,  if  that  stupid  Val  would 
ever  come  to  the  point.  I  know  he  likes  me,  but  the  tire- 
some creature  won't  say  so." 

Mr.  Wyndham  had  but  just  left  Mr.  Blake's  oflSce, 
after  having  bewildered  that  gentleman  with  the  same 
news  Olive  had  imparted  to  her  friend. 

Mr.  Blake's  hands  were  very  deep  in  his  pockets,  and 
he  was  whistling  a  dismally  perplexed  whistle,  as  the 
young  author  left  his  sanctum. 

"It's  very  odd!"  Mr.  Blake  was  thinking,  "it's  very 
odd,  indeed !  He  said  he  would  do  it,  and  I  didn't  believe 
him,  ai:d  now  it's  done.  It's  very  odd!  I  know  she 
doesn't  care  about  him,  rather  the  reverse;  and  then,  she 
was  promised  to  Cavendish.  What  can  she  be  marrying 
him  for?  Wyndham,  too,  he  isn't  in  love  with  her;  it's 
not  in  him  to  be  in  love  with  ^anyone.  What  caw  he 
want  marrying  lier  ?  It  can't  be  her  money — at  least,  it's 
not  like  Paul  Wyndham,  if  it  is.  And  then  he's  a  sort  of 
novel-writing  heisnit,  who  would  live  on  bread  and  water 
as  fast  as  turtle-soup,  and  doesn't  care  a  button  for  society. 
It's  odd — it's  uncommonly  odd !" 

Speckport  found  it  odd,  too,  and  said  so,  which  Mr. 
Blake  did  not,  except  to  himself.  But  then  the  heiress 
V.  ."ill  the  imperious  beauty  and  flashing  eyes  Wii3  a  singular 
being,  anyhoAV,  and  they  put  it  down  as  the  last  coquetry 
of.  my  Lady  Caprice.  And  while  they  talked  of  it,  and 
(conjectured  about  it,  and  wondered  if  she  would  not  jilt 
him  for  somebody  else  before  the  day  came  round — while 
Speckport  gossiped  ravenously,  Mr.  Wyndham  was  a  daily 
visitor  at  the  cottage,  and  Speckport  beheld  the  betrothed 


MR.      WTNDHAM'S     WEDDING.  835 

pair  galloping  together  out  alon*  the  lovely  country-roads 
and  over  the  distant  tree-clad  liills,  and  saw  the  new  villa 
at  Redmon  going  up  with  magical  rapidity,  and  tiie  once 
bleak  and  dreary  grounds  being -transformed  into  a  fairy- 
land.of  beauty.  All  the  head  dressmakers  and  milHners  of 
the  town  were  up  to  their  eyes  in  tlie  wedding-spleiidors, 
and  sucli^  a  lot  of  Miss  Henderson's  dear  five  hundred  had 
been  invited  to  the  wedding  that  the  miracle  was  how  the 
cottage  was  going  to  hold  "them  all.  Speckport  knew  all 
about  the  arrano;eraents  beforehand  ;  how  they  were  to  bo 
married  in  Trinity  Church,  being  both  High-Church  peo- 
ple ;  how  they  were  going  on  a  bi-idal-tour  through  tlie 
Canadas,  and  would  return  toward  the  close  of  August, 
when  the  villa  would  be  ready  to  receive  them. 

Speckport  talked  of  all  this  incessantly,  and  of  the  live 
brideinaids;  of  whom  Laura  Blair,  Jeaniiette  McGregor 
and  Miss  Tod,  were  the  chief ;  and  while  they  talked,  the 
day  came  round.  A  dull  and  depressing  day,  with  a  clam 
my  yellow  fog  that  stuck  to  everything,  and  a  bleak  wind 
that  reddened  the  pretty  noses  of  tfie  bridemaids,  and 
made  them  shiver  in  their  white  satin  shoes.  The  old 
church  was  crowded.  Young  and  old,  gentle  and  simple, 
all  flocked  to  see  the  beautiful  black-eyed  heiress  who  had 
set  so  many  unhajjpy  young  men  crazy,  married  at  last  to 
the  man  of  her  choice.  The  dismal  vv'eather  Iiad  no  oHect 
on  her,  it  seemed;  for  she  swept  up  the  aisle,  leaning  ou 
the  arm  of  Mr.  Darcy,  who  was  to  play  papa,  in  a  dress 
whose  splendor  electnfied  Speckport,  and  which  had  been 
imported  direct  from  Paris ;  all  in  white,  an  immense  vail 
floating  all  around  her  like  a  silvery  mist,  she  didn't,  as 
sf^andalized  Speckport  said,  for  all,  look  a  bit  like  a  bride. 
Where  was  the  drooping  of  the  long  eye-lashes ;  whero 
the  paling  and  flushing  elieek ;  whore  the  shy  and  tinnd 
graces  of  virginhood  ?  Was  it  not  the  height  of  impro- 
prlety  to  walk  up  the  aisle  with  her  head  erect,  her  l.»lack 
eyes  bright  and  detiant,  her  lips  compressed,  and  her  color 
never  varying?  It  was  the  vulgarity  and  brazennesa  of 
the  New  York  grisette  breaking  out,  or  the  spangles  and 
sawdust  of  the  circus-rider.  But  Speckport  said  all  this 
under  their  breath;  and  when  it  was  all  over,  and  the 


036  MR.     WTNBEAM'S    MOTHER. 

names  down  in  the  register,  kissed  the  bride,  at  least  fe- 
male Speckport  did,  the  beings  in  broadcloth  and  white 
vests  only  looking  as  if  they  would  like  to.  And  then  they 
drove  back  to  the  cottage ;  and  Miss  Henderson — no,  it , 
was  Mrs.  Wyndham  now — went  to  her  room  at  once  to 
put  on  her  traveling-dress,  for  the  steamer  started  in  half 
an  hour.  There  was  a  great  crowd  on  the  wharf  to  see 
them  o£E ;  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  stood  to  be  looked 
at — he,  pale,  quiet,  and  calm;  she,  haughty  and  hand- 
some, and  uplifted  to  the  end. 

So  it  was  all  over,  and  the  heiress  of  Redmon  was 
safely  married  at  last !  The  news  came  out  in  next  day's 
"  Sponter,"  with  a  string  of  good  wishes  from  the  editorial 
chair  for  the  happy  pair.  Two  young  men — Captain  George 
P.  Cavendish,  in  the  reading-room  of  a  Montreal  liotel,  and 
Mr.  Tom  Oaks,  in  an  Indian's  tent  up  the  country,  where 
he  shot  and  fished — read  it,  and  digested  the  bitter  pill  as 
best  they  might.  Some  one  else  read  it,  too ;  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham, with  his  own  hands,  posted  the  first  copy  of  that 
particular  "  Sponter"  he  received  to  a  young  lady,  who  read 
it  with  strange  eagerness  in  her  own  room  in  a  quaint  New 
York  hotel.  A  lady  who  read  it  over  and  over  and  over 
again,  as  often  and  as  eagerly  as  Miss  Wade  had  read  tliat 
advertisement  long  before  in  the  Canadian  paper  shown 
her  in  Mrs.  Butterby's  lodgings,  by  the  pale  actress. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MR.   WYNDHAM'S   mother. 

^^^R.  WYNDHAM  and  Miss  Henderson  had  had 
I :[»|ftl®|  but  one  confidential  interview  after  that  first 
ffli^i^'^l  ^^^'  ^^'^^i'^o  *^^  lengtli  of  their  brief  engage- 
r^:^HJ^I  ment.  It  was  the  day  after  the  evening  at  the 
theater.  Mr.  Wyndham  had  called  early  and 
found  the  heiress  waiting  for  him  ia  the  drawing-room. 


MB.      WYKDHAM'S    MOTHER.  337 

Tiiere  was  no  terror,  no  humiliation  in  her  manner  now, 
nothing  but  reckless,  scornful  deliance,  and  fierce  pride, 
with  which  ehe  seemed  to  dare  him  and  Fate  to  do  their 
worst. 

"  I  was  afraid  of  you  yesterday,  Mr.  Paul  Wyndham." 
she  said,  with  an  unpleasant  laugh.  "  I  shall  never  be 
afraid  of  you  again.  I  see  that  it  is  of  no  use  to  stragulo 
against  Destiny — Providence,  good  people  would  say,  but 
I  make  no  pretense  of  goodness.  The  French  have  a 
saying  that  embodies  the  character  of  the  natiou  :  '  Cour- 
onnons  nous  des  roses  avant  qu'elles  Tie  se  fleurissenV  I 
take  that  for  my  motto  from  henceforth,  and  crown  my- 
self with  roses  before  they  fade.  I  shall  dress  and  spend 
money  and  enjoy  this  fortune  while  I  may — when  it  goes, 
why,  let  it  go, — I,  shall  know  what  to  do  when  that  time 
comes !" 

Mr.  Wyndham  bowed  in  grave  silence,  and  waited  to 
hear  all  she  might  have  to  say.  ""To  retain  this  wealth," 
she  went  on  in  the  same  reckless  tone,  and  with  her  black 
deriding  eyes  seeming  to  mock  him,  "  I  consent  to  maVry 
you  ;  that  is,  1  consent  to  go  through  a  civil  and  religious 
ceremony  which  the  v/orld  will  call  a  marriage,  and  which 
to  us  will  simply  mean  nothing  but  an  empty  form.  It 
will  give  you  a  right  to  my  money,  which  is  all  you  want; 
it  will  give  you  a  right  to  dwell  under  the  same  roof,  but 
no  right  ever  to  intrude  yourself  upon  me  for  one  second, 
except  when"  others  arc  present  and  it  is  necessary  to  avoid 
suspicion.  The  world  will  call  me  by  your  name  ;  but  I 
shall  still  remain  Olive  Henderson,  free  and  unfettered — 
free  to  come  and  go  and  do  as  I  please,  without  interfer- 
ence or  hindrance  from  you.  Do  I  make  myself  under- 
stood ?'' 

"Perfectly,"  Mr.  "Wyndham  said,  coolly,  "and  ex- 
press my  views  entirely.  I  am  delighted  with  your  good 
sense,  Miss  Henderson,  and  I  foresee  we  shall  make  a  model 
couple,  jmd  get  on  together  famously.  Now,  as  to  our 
wedding  arrangements.     WKen  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"  Whenever  you  please,"  she  said,  scornfully  ;  "  it  is  a 
matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me." 
15 


338  i^R-    wrynHAM's  .vornEH. 

'•  I  do  not  like  to  hurry  you  too  mucli,  but  if  the  end 
of  June " 

Olive  made  a  careless  gesture  with  her  ringed 
hand : 

"  Tliat  will  do  !     One  tune  is  as  good  as  another." 
\       "  And  our  bridal  tour?     There  must  be  a  bridal  tour, 
you  know,  or  people  will  talk." 

"  I  told  you,"  she  said,  impatiently, "  it  was  of  no  con- 
sequence to  me !  Arrange  it  as  you  please — I  shall  make 
no  objection." 

"  Then  suppose  we  go  to  Canada  for  a  couple  of 
months  ?  The  villa  at  Kedmon  can  be  ready  upon  our 
return." 

And  this  tender  t6te-d-tgte  between  the  plighted  pair 
settled  the  matter.  And  in  due  time  the  solemn  inockery 
was  performed  by  the  Kev.  Augustus  Tod,  and  Mr.  and 
Mi-s.  Wyndham  departed  on  their  wedding  tour.  Tba 
upholsterer  had  received  his  orders,  and  the  villa  would 
be  in  readiness  upon  their  return,  and  there  would  be  a 
famous  house-wai-ming,  to  which  half  Speckport  wjxs  to  be 
invited.  About  three  weeks  after  the  amicable  adjust- 
ment of  afiairs  between  the  autlior  and  the  heiress,  Mr. 
Wyndham  made  a  little  investment  in  landed  property  on 
his  own  account.  There  was  a  delightfal  little  dwelling, 
known  as  "  Kosebush  Cottage,"  for  sale.  A  real  bijou  of 
a  cottage,  painted  cream  color,  with  vivid  green  window- 
shutters  and  door,  and  with  a  garden  in  front  that  was  a 
perfect  sea  of  roses — crimson  roses,  and  montiily  roses, 
and  damask  roses,  and  bridal  roses,  all  kinds  bloomed  here, 
until  the  air  became  faint  with  perfume;  and  behind 
there  was  a  gnarled  old  orchard,  where  applo-trees  and 
plum-trees  nearly  covered  the  creamy  cottage  with  their 
long  green  arms.  This  delicious  Rosebush  Cottage  v/as 
'  forliile  ;  and  Mr.  Wyndham,  who  had  for  some  time  been 
iquietly  on  the  look-out  for  just  such  a  place,  became  its 
purchaser.  When  asked  w-'liat  he  could  possibly  want  of 
it,  Mr.  Wyndham  answered  it  was  for  his  mother, 

"  For  your  mother !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Blake,  when  Mr. 
Wyndham  first  told  hira.  "You  never  mean  to  say, 
Wyndham,  your  mother  is  going  to  exchange  the  genial 


MR      WT^'J)L'AJd\S    MOTUER.  831 

and  spicy  breezes  of  Westchester  County  for  our  bleak 
province — hey  ?" 

"  Westchester  County  is  a  deh'ghtful  place,  no  doubt," 
responded  Mr.  Wyndham  ;  "  but  in  my  absence,  it  is  only 
vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  to  my  poor  mother.  What 
arc  all  the  Westchester  Counties  in  America  ta  her  with- 
out her  Paul,  her  only  one !  ]  shall  send  for  her  as  soon 
as  I  return  from  Canada,  to  come  here." 

"  Perhaiis  she  won't  come,"  said  Yal ;  "  perhaps  she 
will  think  of  the  old  adage,  '  INIy  sou's  my  son  till  he  gets 
him  a  wife,'  and  prefer  reinaining  where. she  is." 

"  Xo,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham,  "  my  mother  knows  her 
son  will  be  her  son  all  the  days  of  his  hfe.  She  is  very 
much  changed,  Blake,  since  you  knew  her ;  she  never  was 
very  fond  of  society,  as  you  are  aware ;  but  of  late  she 
has  become  a  perfect  recluse,  shutting  herself  in  and 
shutting  the  world  out.  Rosebush  Cottage  will  make  hqr 
a  very  nice  hermitage,  I  think,  and  it  is  conveniently  near 
Redmon.  The  next  thing  is  to  look  out  for  a  competent 
and  trustworthy  servant — not  a  young  girl,  you  know, 
giddy  and  frivolous,  but  a  quiet  and  sensible  woman,  who 
would  not  object  to  the  loneliness." 

Mr.  Blake  put  on  his  cousidering-cap. 

"There's  Midge,"  he  said,  "  she's  out  of  place,  and 
stopping  with  us — you  saw  her  at  onr  house  last  night, 
you  remember ;  but  I'm  afraid  she  mightn't  suit." 

"  That  little  dwarf,  do  you  mean  ?  She  would  do 
well  enough,  as  far  as  looks  are  concerned,  if  that  is  the 
only  objection." 

"  But  that  isn't  the  only  objection,"  said  Yal ; "  more's 
the  pity,  for  she  is  perfectly  trustworthy,  and  c;in  work 
like  a  hoi-se.  As  for  the  loneliness,  she  would  rather  pre- 
fer it  ou  that  very  account." 

"  Then  what  is  the  objection  ?" 

"  Wh}^,  you  sec,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  we're  none  of  us  per- 
fect in  this  lower  world,  and  Midge,  thou<^h  but  one  re- 
move from  an  angel  in  a  general  point  of  view,  has  yet 
her  failings.     For  instance,  there's  her  temper." 

"  Bad  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Wyndham. 

Mr.  Blake  nodded  intelligently. 


S40  MR.     WTNDEAM'S    MOTHER. 

"  It  never  was  of  the  best,  you  know ;  but  after  she 
lost  Nathalie  Marsh,  it  became — well,  she  is  never  kept  in 
any  place  over  a  week,  and  then  she  comes  to  us  and 
makes  a  purgatory  of  Ko.  16  Great  St.  Peter  Street,  until 
she  finds  another  situation.  I'm  afraid  she  wouldn't 
do." 

Mr.  Blake,  smelling  audibly  at  the  roses  as  he  said  this, 
did  not  see  the  sudden  change  that  had  come  over  Mr. 
\Yyndham'8  face,^  nor  the  eagerness  hai'dly  repressed  in 
his  voice  when  he  spoke. 

"She  was  formerly  a  servant,  then,  of  this  Miss 
Nathalie  Marsh,  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  many  speak 
since  I  came  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  years,  and  devotedly  attached  to  her.-  Poor 
Natty !  I  think  Midge  felt  her  loss  ten  degrees  more 
than  her  own  mother ;  but  grief,  I  regret  to  say,  hasn't 
a  sweetening  effect  on  Midge's  temper." 

"  Still  I  think  I  shall  try  her,"  said  Paul  Wyndham, 
carelessly.  "  My  mother  is  very  quiet  and  easy,  and  I 
don't  believe  they  will  quarrel.  I  will  see  Midge  about 
it  this  very  day." 

Which  he  did  accordiugly,  sending  her  off  at  once 
to  keep  the  cottage  until  his  raothei-'s  arrival.  The  up- 
holsterer furnishing  Redmon  Villa  had  his  orders  for 
E.oseb'ish  Cottage  also,  and  both  were  to  be  in  readiness 
when  September  came  round. 

Olive  Henderson  heard  with  extreme  indifference  of 
the  expected  arrival  of  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother,  from  the 
lips  of  Miss  Jo  Blake,  next  day. 

"  Ah  !  is  she  ?"  the  heiress  said,  suppressing  a  yawn ; 
"  well,  as  she  is  to  reside  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Redmou, 
I  don't  suppose  she  will  be  much  trouble  to  me.  If  the 
mistress  be  like  the  maid,  Laura,"  said  the  heiress,  turn- 
ing with  a  scornful  laugh  to  her  friend,  "  I  am  likely  to 
have  a  charming  mamma-in-law." 

Good  Miss  Jo,  who  thought  the  motheriess  heiress 
would  rejoice  at  the  tidings  she  brought  her,  was  scan- 
dalized at  the  speech.  Indeed,  Miss  Jo — the  best  of 
women  and  old  maids — did  not  approve  of  Miss  Hender- 
son's capers  at  all.     She  had  always  thought  her  too  proud ; 


MB.     WTNDHAM'8    MOTHER.  341 

for  Miss  Jo's  simple  Irish  belief  was,  that  we  earthly 
worms  have  no  business  at  all  with  that  sin  which  drove 
Lucifer,  Star  of  the  Morning,  from  Paradise,  and  w.'is 
sorry  to  see  her  favorite  Laura  so  much  taken  up  with  the 
queenly  coquette. 

"  Laura  was  such  a  nice  little  girl,  Yal,"  Miss  Jo  said, 
to  the  editor  of  the  "  Speckport  S])outer,"  across  the  tea- 
table  that  evening  ;  "  and  now,  I  am  afraid,  she  will  fall 
into  the  ways  of  that  young  gii-I,  whom  everybody  is  run- 
ning crazy  after.  If  Miss  Henderson  was  like  poor 
Natty,  or  that  little  angel,  Miss  Rose,  now !" 

*'  How  is  Miss  Rose,  Jo  V  asked  Yal ;  "  I  haven't  seen 
her  this  month  of  Sundays  ?" 

"  She  isn't  out  much,"  said  Miss  Blake ;  "  Mrs. 
Wheatly  keeps  her  busy  ;  and  when  she  does  come  out, 
it's  to  Mrs.  Marsh's  she  goes,  or  to  see  her  poor  pensioners. 
Miss  Henderson  asked  her  to  be  one  of  her  bridemaids, 
I  hear,  but  she  refused." 

"Stuii!"said  Val,  politely.  "Miss  Henderson  isn't 
the  woman  to  ask  a  governess  to  be  her  bridemaid.  Not 
but  that  Miss  Rose  is  as  good  as  she  is  1" 

"As  good  !"  cried  Miss  Jo,  in  shrill  indignation,  "she's 
fifty  thousand  times  better.  Miss  Rose  is  a  little  pale- 
faced  angel  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  and  that  rich  young 
woman  with  the  big  black  eyes  is  no  more  an  angel  than 
I  am  !" 

Miss  Jo  manifested  her  disapprobation  of  the  heiress 
by  not  going  to  see  her  married,  and  by  declinine;  an  invi- 
tation to  the  wedding-breakfast ;  neither  of  which  slights, 
had  she  known  of  them,  which  she  didn't,  would  have 
troubled  the  high-stepping  young  lady  in  the  least. 

But  Miss  Jo  was  destined  to  become  an  heiress  her- 
self ;  for,  a  fortnight  after  the  great  wedding,  and  just  as 
Speckport  was  getting  nicely  round  after  the  shock,  it 
received  another  staggerer  in  the  news  that  a  great  for- 
tune had  been  left  to  Miss  Jo  Blake.  Thirty  thousand 
pounds,  the  first  startling  announcement  had  it ;  thirteen, 
the  second  ;  and  three,  the  final  and  correct  one. 

Yes;  Miss  Jo  had  been  left  the  neat  little  sum  of 
thi-ee  thousand  pounds  sterling,  and  was  going  home  to 


343  MB.     WTNDHAM'8    MOTHER. 

take  possession  of  the  fortune.  An  old  maiden  aunt,  aftea: 
whom  Miss  Joanna  had  been  named,  and  from  whom  she 
had  long  had  expectations — as  all  Speckport  had  heard  a 
million  times,  more  or  less — had  died  at  last,  and  left  Miss 
Jo  the  three  thousand  and  her  blessing. 

Upon  receiving  the  tidings.  Miss  Blake  was  seized 
with  a  violent  desire  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  her  infantile 
sports,  and  gave  warning  of  her  intention  of  starting  in 
the  first  vessel  bound  for  Liverpool. 

"  And  it's  not  in  one  of  them  dirtj  steamboats  I'll  go," 
said  Miss  Jo,  decisively,  "  that's  liable  to  blow  up  any 
minute ;  but  I'll  go  in  a  ship  that's^  slow  and  sure,  and 
not  put  a  hand  in  my  own  life  by  trusting  to  one  of  them 
new-fangled  inventions !" 

Mr.  Blake  expostulated  with  his  sister  on  the  impro- 
priety of  leaving  him  alone  and  unprotected  to  the  mer- 
cies of  heartless  servant-girls.     Miss  Jo  was  inexorable. 

"  If  you  don't  lilce  Keeping  house  and  fighting  with 
the  servants,"  said  Miss  Blake,  "  go  and  board.  If  you 
don't  like  boarding,  why,  go  and  get  married !  it  won't 
hurt  your  growth  any,  I'm  sure !" 

As  Mr.  Blake  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  thirty,  and 
had  probably  done  growing,  there  was  a  gi-eat  deal  of 
sound  truth  in  Miss  Jo's  remark.  Mr.  Blake,  however, 
only  stood  aghast  at  the  proposal. 

"  It's  time  you  were  getting  married,  Val,"  pursued 
Miss  Jo,  busily  packing ;  particularly  now,  that  I'm  going 
to  leave  you.  You're  well  enough  off,  and  there's  lots  of 
nice  girls  in  Speckport  who  would  be  glad  to  snap  at  you. 
Not  tiiat  I  should  like  to  see  you  marry  a  Bluenose — Lord 
forbid !  if  it  could  be  helped ;  but  there's  Miss  Rose,  or 
there's  Laura  Blair,  both  of  them  as  nice  girls  a^  jou  will 
find.     Now,  why  can't  you  take  and  marry  one  of  them  '." 

Mr.  Blake  was  beyond  the  power  of  replying.  lie 
could  only  stare  in  blank  and  helpless  consternation  at  his 
brisk,  match-making  sister. 

"  I  would  rather  you  took  Miss  Eose,"  pursued  Miss 
Blake,  "  she's  the  best  of  the  two,  and  a  rock  of  sense  ; 
but  Laura's  very  fond  of  you,  and — where  are  you  going 
now  ?" 


MB.     WTNDEAM'B    MOTHER.  843 

I'or  Mr.  Blake  had  snatched  up  his  hat  and  started 
out,  banging  the  door  after  him.  The  first  person  he  met, 
turning  the  corner,  Avas  Mr.  Blair. 

"  So  you're  going  to  lose  Jo,  Blake,"  he  said,  taking 
his  arm.     "  Laura  tells  me  she  is  off  next  week  in  the  . 
Ocean  Star.  ^  What  are  jou  going  to  do  with  yourself 
when  you  lose  her  ?" 

"  Become  a  monk,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  helplessly. 
"  I  don't  know  anything  else  for  it !  Jo  talks  of  board- 
ing, but  I  hate  boarding-liouses,  and  wliere  else  can  I  go  ?" 

''  Come  to  us,"  ciied  Mr,  Blair,  heartily.  "  Mi's.  B. 
thinks  there's  nobody  like  you,  and  you  and  I  will  have  a 
fine  chance  to  talk  things  over  together.  Come  to  us,  old 
boy,  and  make  our  house  your  home  !" 

Mr.  Blake  closed  with  this  friendly  offer  at  once,  on 
condition  that  the  ladies  of  the  house  were  satisfied. 

"  jSIo  danger  of  that,"  said  Laura's  father ;  "  they  will^. 
be  in  transports.   Come  up  this  evening  and  have  a  smoke 
with  me,  and  see  if  they  don't." 

Lam^  Blair's  eyes  danced  in  her  head  when  her  father 
told  tliOTi  the  news ;  but  the  httle  hypocrite  affected  to 
object. 

"  It  will  make  so  much  trouble,  pa,"  the  young  lady 
said,  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  "  trouble  for  ma  and  me,  J 
mean,     I  wish  he  wasn't  coming." 

Mr,  Blair  listened  to  the  shocking  fib  with  the  great- 
est indifference.  He  didn't  care  whether  she  liked  it  or 
not,  and  said  so,  with  paternal  frankness. 

So  Miss  Jo  kissed  everybody  and  departed,  and  Val 
translated  his  Lares  and  Penates  to  Mr.  Blair's  ;  at  least, 
Buch  of  them  as  were  not  disposed  of  by  public  auction. 

Speckport  was  just  settling  its  nerves  after  this,  when 
it  was  thj-owo  into  another  litUe  flutter  by  the  unexpected 
return  of  Captain  Cavendish. 

Yes,  Captain  Cavendish,  the  defeated  conqueror,  came 
back  to  the  scene  of  his  defeat,  rather  swaggering  than 
otherwise,  and  carrying  things  with  a  high  hand.  Per- 
haps the  gallant  captain  wanted  to  show  Speckport  how 
little  he  cared  for  being  jilted  ;  perhaps  ho  vv-anted  to  see 
what  kind  of  life  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wyndham  would  lead 


844  MB.      WYND  HAM'S    MOTHER. 

together;  perhaps  he  found  himself  too  well  kuown  as  a 
roue  and  gambler  in  Montreal ;  or  perhaps  he  was  not 
tired  bleeding  young  Aiick  McGregor  and  young  Speck- 
port  generally,  in  that  quiet  house  in  Prince  Street.  He 
was  back,  anyway,  handsome,  and  nonchalant,  and  uo- 
principled  us  ever. 

Miss  Blair  received  a  letter  from  her  friend  three 
weeks  after  her  departure,  dated  Niagara.  Mrs.  V7ynd- 
ham  was  not  a  good  coiTespondent,  it  seemed ;  her  letter 
was  very  brief  and  unsatisfactoiy,  and  she  only  mentioned 
her  husband  once,  and  then  merely  to  say  Mr.  Wyndham 
was  well.  She  signed  the  letter  simply,  "  Olive,"  not 
using  her  real  name,  and  told  Laura  that  Montreal  was 
tiresome  and  the  Canadians  stupid.  Miss  Blair  sent  her 
half  a  quire  of  note-paper  by  way  of  answer,  recording 
every  item  of  infonuation,  and  every  possible  scrap  of 
news,  and  imploring  a  speedy  reply.  But  Olive  never 
replied,  although  August  wore  itself  out  while  Laura 
waited.  On  the  last  day  of  that  month,  Mrs.  Hill  re- 
ceived a  telegram  from  Portland,  Me.,  from  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham, informing  her  ker  master  and  mistress  woul#  arrive 
next  day. 

It  was  a  glorious  September  afternoon  that  on  which  the 
wedded  pair  returned  from  their  short  bridal-tour.  The 
steamer  swept  up  to  the  crowded  wharf  in  a  sort  of  sun- 
burst of  glory,  and  the  air  was  opaque  with  amber  mist, 
as  if  it  were  raining  impalpable  gold-dust.  Not  a  sign  of 
fog  in  the  cloudless  blue  sky ;  it  might  have  been  Venice 
instead  of  Speckport,  so  luminously  brilUant  was  sky  and 
earth  that  afternoon. 

The  passengers  poured  out  of  the  steamer,  and  came 
np  the  bustling  floats,  where  cabmen,  porters,  hotel-run- 
ners and  the  steamer-hands  were  making  a  Babel  of  dis- 
cord, and  the  passengers  wondered  to  see  the  crowd  of 
people  looking  curiously  down  upon  them  from  the  wharf 
above.  Lam*a  Blair  stood  straining  her  eyes  for  a  sight 
of  her  friend.  Olive  Henderson,  with  her  dangerous 
gift  of  fascination,  had  won  the  girl's  love  as  it  had  never 
been  won  before,  and  Laura  had  ntissed  her  sadly  during 
these  two  last  months.    As  she  stood  impatiently  waiting, 


MB.     WTNDHAM'a    MOTHER.  345 

bLg  was  tliinking  of  that  pleasant  March  evening  when 
Olive  Henderson  hud  tiret  come  to  Speckport,  and  they 
liad  watclied  her  walk  up  these  very  lloats,  stately  and 
tall,  leaning  on  Mr.  Darcy's  arm,  and  wearing  a  vail  over 
her  face.  And  while  Laura  thought  of  it,  and  could 
scarcely  believe  it  was  only  six  moutlis  ago,  she  saw  the 
same  Olive — Olive  AVyndliara  now — coming  toward  her 
on  her  husband's  arm.  She  was  not  vailed  this  time, 
although  a  long  drab  gossamer  vail  floated  back  from  the 
pretty  jockey-hat  she  wore,  and  Laura  saw  how  pale  and 
fagged  and  spiritless  she  looked.  The  next  moment,  she 
had  thrown  her  arms  impetuously  around  her,  and  was 
kissing  her  rapturously. 

"  My  darling  Oily  !  my  darling  Oily !"  she  was  crying 
out.     "  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again  !" 

Her  darling  Oily  did  not  return  the  embrace  very  en- 
thusiastically, though  her  face  lit  up  at  sight  of  her 
friend.  Laura  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Wyndham,  who 
was  smiling  at  her  effusions,  and  then  turned  again  to  the 
friend  she  loved. 

"  Oh,  Oily  !  how  dull  it  has  been  since  you  went  away, 
and  how  cruel  of  you  never  to  write  to  me !  Why  didn't 
you  write  V^ 

"  Writing  is  such  a  bore,"  Olive  said,  drearily.  "  I 
hate  writing.     Is  that  the  carriage  waiting  up  there?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura ;  "  and  now  did  you  enjoy  your 
travel  'i     You  look  pale  and  tired." 

"  I  am  tired  to  death,"  Mrs.  Wyndham  said,  impa- 
tiently, "  and  I  have  not  enioyed  myself  at  all.  Every 
place  was  stupid,  and  I  am  glad  taj)e  home!  Do  let  us 
get  out  of  this  mob,  Mr.  Wyndham !" 

Mr.  Wyndham  had  paused  for  a  moment  to  give  some 
directions  about  the  baggage,  and  his  wife  addressed  him 
so  sharply  that  Laura  stared.  Laura  noticed  during  the 
homeward  drive  how  seldom  she  spoke  k)  her  husband, 
and  how  cold  her  tone  always  was  when  she  addr<jssed 
him.  But  Mr.  Wyndham  did  not  seem  to  mind  much. 
He  talked  to  Laura — and  Mr.  AVyndham  knew  how  to 
talk — and  told  her  about  their  travels,  and  the  places  they 
15* 


846  MR.     WTNDHAM'S    MOTHER. 

had  been,  and  the  people  they  had  met,  and  the  adven- 
tures the  J  had  encountered. 

"  Olive  reigned  Ladj  Paramount  wherever  we  went," 
he  said,  smiling  (he  never  called  her  Mrs.  Wyndham  or 
"  my  wife,"  always  Olive).  "  Our  tour  was  a  long  suc- 
cession of  brilliant  trkimphs  for  her." 

Olive  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdainfully,  and 
looked  at  the  swelling  meadows  as  they  drove  along  Red- 
mon  road.  A  beautiful  road  in  summer  time,  and  the 
Nettleby  cottage  was  quite  lost  in  a  sea  of  green  verdure, 
sprinkled  with  red  stars  of  the  scarlet-runners.  Ann 
Kettleby  stood  in  the  door  as  they  drove  by  in  a  cloud  of 
dust — in  that  doorway  where  pretty  Cherrie  used  to 
stand,  pretty,  flighty  little  Cherrie,  whom  Speckport  was 
fast  learning  to  forget. 

And  Redmon!  Could  Mrs.  Leroy  have  risen  from 
her  grave  and  looked  on  Redmon,  she  might  well  have 
stared  aghast  at  the  magical  changes.  A  lovely  little 
villa,  with  miniature  peaks  and  turrets,  and  a  long  piazza 
running  around  it,  and  verdant  with  climbing  roses  and 
sweetbrier.  A  sloping  velvety  lawn,  on  which  the  draw- 
ing-room and  dining-rooms  windows  opened,  led  from  the 
house  to  the  avenue ;  and  fair  flower-gardens,  where 
fountains  played  in  marble  basins,  and  bees  and  butterflies 
disported  in  the  September  sunshine,  spread  away  on  all 
sides.  Beyond  them  lay  the  swelling  meadows,  the  dark 
woods ;  and,  beyond  all,  the  shining  sea  aglitter  in  the 
summer  sunshine.  The  groom  came  up  to  lead  away  the 
horee,  and  Mrs.  Hill,  in  a  black  silk  dress  and  new  cap, 
stood  in  the  doorway  to  receive  them.  The  dark,  sunless 
face  of  Olive  lit  up  and  became  luminous  for  the  fii*st 
time  as  she  saw  all  this. 

'"  How  pretity  it  is,  Laura !"  she  said.  "  I  am  glad  I 
am  home." 

The  seiTants  were  gathered  in  the  hall  to  welcome 
their  master  and  mistress  as  they  entered  arm-in-arm. 
The  upholsterer  had  done  his  work  well,  the  drawing- 
room  was  one  long  vista  of  splendor,  the  dining-room  al- 
most too  beautiful  for  eating  in,  and  there  was  a  conserva- 
tory the  like  of  which  Speckport  had  never  seen  before. 


MR.      WTNDEAM'S    MOTHER.  847 

Mrs.  Wyndhani  had  a  suite  of  rooms,  too — sleeping-room, 
drofesing-room,  bath-room,  and  boudoir — all  opening  into 
one  another  in  a  long  vision  of  brightness  and  beauty, 
and  there  was  a  library  which  was  a  library,  and  not  a 
mockery  and  a  delusion,  and  was  lined  with  books  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  Speckport  had  been  shown  the  house, 
and  pronounced  it  perfection. 

Olive  Wyndham  forgot  her  languor  and  weariness, 
and  broke  out  in  her  old  delighted  way  as  she  went 
through  it. 

"  How  beautiful  it  all  ia !"  she  cried,  "  and  it  is  all 
mine — my  own  !  I  am  going  to  be  happy  here — I  will 
be  happy  here !" 

Her  black  eyes  flashed  strangely  upon  her  husband 
walking  by  her  side,  and  the  hand  clenched,  as  if  she 
defied  Fate  from  henceforth. 

"  I  hope  so,"  Paul  Wyndham  said,  gravely.  "  I  hope, 
with  all  my  heart,  you  may  be  happy  here." 

Laura  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  silent  wonder. 
Mr.  Wyndham  turned  to  her  as  they  finished  the  tour  of 
the  house. 

'^  I  suppose  Rosebush  Cottage  is  hardly  equal  to  this, 
Miss  Laura  ?     Have  you  been  there  lately  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura.  "  Val  and  I — he  stops  with  us 
now,  you  know — went  through  it  last  week.  The  rooms 
are  very  pretty,  and  the  garden  is  one  wildeniess  of  roses ; 
and  Midge  reminds  me  of  Eve  in  Eden,  only  there  is  no 
Adam." 

"  And  Midge  does  not  exactly  correspond  with-  our 
ideas  of  our  fair  fii-st  mother,"  laughed  Mr.  Wyndham. 
"  I  must  go  there  to-morrow  and  see  the  place.  Will  you 
come,  Olive?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  coldly,  "Rosebush  Cot- 
tage has  vei-y  little  interest  for  me." 

Again  Launi  stared. 

"  Why  is  she  so  cross  ?"  she  thought.  "  How  can  she 
be  cross,  when  he  seems  so  kind  ?  How  soon  do  vou  ex^ 
pect  your  mother,  Mr.  Wyndham?"  she  said  aloud. 

"This  is  Friday— I  shall  leave  on  Monday  morning 
for  New  York  to  fetch  her." 


848  2fR     WYNDHAM'8    MOTHER. 

There  was  an  announcement  that  dinner  was  ready, 
and  nothing  more  w^s  said  of  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother. 
He  rode  over  to  Kosebush  Cottage  early  next  morning, 
attended  only  by  a  big  Canadian  wolf-hound,  of  which 
animals  he  had  brought  two  splendid  specimens  with  him, 
and  told  Midge  he  was  going  to  leave  him  as  guardian  of 
the  premises.  Before  he  left  the  cottage,  ho  called  Midge 
into  the  pretty  drawing-room,  and  held  a  very  long  and 
very  confidential  interview  with  her,  from  which  she 
emerged  with  her  ruddy  face  blanched  to  the  hue  of  a 
sheet.  Whatever  was  said  in  that  long  conversation,  its 
effect  was  powerful  on  Midge;  for  she  remained  in  a 
dazed  and  bewildered  state  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  capable 
of  doing  nothing  but  sitting  with  her  arms  folded  on  the 
kitchen-table,  staring  very  hard  at  vapancy  with  her  little 
round  eyes. 

Mr.  Wyndham  departed  for  Kew  York  on  Monday 
morning,  taking  the  other  big  dog,  Faust,  with  him.  Mrs. 
Wyndham  took  his  departure  with  superb  indifference — 
it  was  nothing  to  her.  John,  the  coachman,  was  of  as 
much  consequence  in  her  eyes  as  the  man  she  had  prom- 
ised to  love,  honor,  and  obey.  She  did  not  ask  him  when 
he  was  coming  back — what  was  it  to  her  if  he  never 
came  ? — but  he  volunteered  the  information.  "  I  will  be 
back  next  week,  Olive,"  Ee  said.  "Good-bye."  .  And 
Olive  had  said  good-bye,  icily,  and  swept  past  him  in  the 
hall,  and  never  once  cast  a  look  after  him,  as  he  drove 
down  the  long  avenue  in  the  hazy  September  sunshine. 

The  house-warming  at  Redmon  could  not  very  well 
come  off  until  Mr.  Wyndham's  return ;  and  the  prepara- 
tions for  that  great  event  being  going  on  in  magnificent 
style,  and  Olive  eager  for  it  to  take  place,  she  was  not 
sorry  when,  toward  the  close  of  the  following  week,  she 
learned  her  husband  had  returned.  It  was  Miss  McGregor 
who  drove  up  to  the  villa  to  make  a  call,  and  related  the 
news. 

"The  boat  got  in  about  two  o'clock,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Wyndham,"  Jeannette  said,  "  and  Mr.  Wyndham  and  liis 
mother  came  in  her.    I  chanced  to  be  on  the  wharf,  and 


VERT    MYSTERIOUS.  349 

I  saw  them  go  up  together,  and  enter  a  cal>  and  dnve  off. 
I  am  sm-prised  they  are  not  here." 

"  They  drove  to  Rosehnsh  Cottage,  I  presnm^f  OHve 
eaid,  rather  haughtily.  "Everythmg  is  in  readiness  for 
Mi's.  Yv'yndliam  there." 

"AVhat  is  she  like,  Jeannette'<"  asked  Laura,  who  waa 
always  at  Rednioii,  familiarly.  "I  suppose  she  was  dressed 
in  black  ?" 

'"  Yes,"  Miss  McG-regor  said,  "she  was  dressed  in 
black,  and  wore  a  thick  black  vail  over  her  lace,  and  they 
had  driven  otf  before  any  one  had  time  to  speak  to  them. 
IS'o  doubt,  she  would  be  present  at  the  house-warming, 
and  then  they  could  call  on  her  afterward." 

But  Mrs.  VV}Tidliam,  Senior,  did  not  appear  at  the 
house-warm Aig ;  and  society  was  given  to  understand, 
very  quietly,  by  Mr.  Wyndhara,  that  his  niothei'  would 
receive  no  callei-s.  Her  health  forbade  all  exertion  or  ex- 
citement, it  appeared.  She  seldom,  if  ever,  crossed  her 
own  tlireshold,  from  week's  end  to  week's  end ;  and  it 
was  her  habit  to  keep  her  room,  and  she  did  not  care  to 
be  disturbed  by  any  one.  Her  health  was  not  so  very 
poor  as  to  require  medical  attendance ;  but  Mr.  AVyudham 
owned  she  was  somewhat  eccentric,  and  he  liked  to  humor 
her.  Speckpoi-t  was  quite  disappointed,  and  said,'  it 
thought  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother  was  a  very  singular 
person,  indeed ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

VERY     MYSTERIOUS. 

house-warming  at  Redmon  was  such  a 
house-warming  as  Speckport  never  saw  be- 
fore; for,  as  ^r,  Blake  with  his  customaiy 
good  sense  remarked,  "  Wlien  Mi's.  F.  Wynd- 
ham  did  that  sort  of  thing,  she  did  do  it."  In 
the  luminous  darkness  of   the   September   evening,  the 


850  VEEY    MYSTERIOUS. 

carriages  of  the  guests  drove  through  the  tall  iron  gates 
up  the  back  avenue,  all  aglow  with  red,  and  blue,  and 
green  lamps,  twinklmg  like  tropical  fireflies  among  the 
trees.  The  whole  front  of  the  beautiful  villa  blazed  with 
illumination,  and  up  in  the  gilded  gallery  the  musicians 
were  filling  the  scented  air  with  delicious  melodj.  It 
was  not  Kedmon,  this ;  it  was  fairy-land ;  it  was  a  scene 
out  of  the  Arabian  Kights,  and  the  darkly-beautiful  lady 
in  ruby  velvet  and  diamonds,  welcoming  her  friends,  was 
the  Princess  Badelbradour,  lovely  enough  to  turn  the 
heads  of  a  brigade  of  poor  Aladdins.  Society  went 
through  the  house  that  night,  and  had  the  eyes  dazzled 
in  their  heads  by  the  blinding  radiance  of  light,  and  the 
glowing  coloring  and  richness  of  all.  The  ladies  went 
into  raptures  over  Mrs.  Wyndham's  rooms,  and  the  literary 
people  cast  envious  eyes  over  the  book-lined  library,  with 
its  busts  of  poets,  and  pictures  of  great  men,  dead  and 
gone.  There  was  a  little  room  opening  off  this  library 
that  seemed  out  of  keeping  hi  its  severe  plainness  with 
the  magnificence  of  the  rest  of  the  house — a  bare,  severe 
room,  with  only  one  window,  looking  out  iipon  the  vel- 
vety sward  of  the  lawn  at  the  back  of  the  villa ;  a  room 
that  had  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  very  little  furniture, 
only  two  or  three  chairs,  a  baize-covered  writing-table,  a 
leather-covered  lounge  under  the  window,  a  few  pictures 
of  dogs  and  hoi-ses,  a  plaster  head  of  John  Milton,  a  se- 
lection of  books  on  swinging  shelves,  a  bureau,  a  dress- 
ing-table, a  lavatory,  a  shaving-glass,  and  a  sofa-bedstead. 
Except  the  servants'  apartments,  there  was  nothing  at  all 
60  plain  as  this  in  the  whole  house ;  and  when  people 
asked  what  it  was,  they  were  told  by  Mrs.  Hill,  who 
showed  the  house,  that  it  was  Mr.  Wj'ndham's  room. 
Tes,  this  was  Mr.  Wyndham's  room,  the  only  room  in 
that  house  he  ever  entered,  save  when  he  went  to  diimer, 
or  when  visitors  required  his  presence  in  the  drawing- 
room  or  library.  His  big  dog  Faust  slept  on  a  rug  beside 
the  table,  his  canaries  sung  to  him  in  their  cages 
around  the  window,  he  wrote  in  that  hard  leathern  arm- 
chair beside  the  green-baize  table,-  he  lay  on  that  lounge 
tmder  the  open   window   in   the  golden  l.u-eeze  of  the 


VERT    MYSTERIOUS.  851 

September  weather,  and  Bmoked  endless  ciffare;  late 
into  tlie  night  his  lamp  glimmered  in  tliat  qniet 
room ;  and  \dien  it  went  out  after  midnight,  he 
was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  jnst  on  the  sofa-bedstead. 
The  servants  at  Redmon  talked,  as  servants  will  talk,  abou" 
the  palpable  estrangement  between  master  and  mistress, 
about  their  never  meeting,  except  at  dinner,  when  there 
always  was  company;  for  Mi-s.  Wyndham  breakfasted  in 
the  boudoir,,  and  Mr.  Wyndham  never  ate  luncheon.  He 
was  quite  hermit-like  in  his  habits,  this  pale,  inscrutable 
young  author — one  glass  of  wine  sufficed  for  him — he 
was  out  of  bed  and  at  work  before  the  stable-boys  or 
scullery-maids  were  stirring,  and  his  only  extravagance 
was  in  the  way  of  cigars.  From  the  day  he  had  married 
Olive  Henderson  until  this,  he  had  never  asked  or  received 
one  stiver  of  her  money  ;  he  had  more  than  sufficient  of 
his  own  for  his  simple  wants  and  liis  mother's,  and  had 
Olive  been  the  hardest  virago  of  a  landlady,  she  could 
hai-dly  have  brought  in  a  bill  against  him,  even  for  board 
and  lodging,  for  he  more  than  repaid  her  for  both.  He 
was  always  courteous,  genial,  and  polite  to  her — too  polite 
for  one  spark  of  her  aii'ection  ;  always  deferring  to  her 
wishes,  and  never  attempting  in  the  smallfest  iota  to  inter- 
fere with  her  caprices,  or  thwart  her  desires,  or  use  his 
husbandly  authority.  She  was  in  every  way  as  much 
her  own  mistress  as  she  had  ever  been  ;  so  much  so  that 
sometunes  she  wondered,  and  found  it  impossible  to  realize 
that  she  was  really  married.  No,  she  was  not  married ; 
these  two  had  never  been  united  cither  in  heart  or  desire ; 
they  were  bound  together  b}  a  compact  never  mentioned 
now.  What  liad  he  gained  by  this  marriage  ?  Olive  some- 
times wonderingly  asked  herself.  He  told  her,  or  as  good 
as  told  lier,  he  wanted  her  for  her  money ;  but  now  that 
money  was  at  his  disposal,  and  he  never  made  nse  of  it. 
What  had  he  married  her  for? 

"How  proud  you  must  be  of  your  husband,  Mrs. 
Wyndham !"  other" women  had  said  to  her,  when  abroad  ; 
and  sometimes,  in  spite  of  herself,  a  sharp  pang  cut  to  the 
center  of  her  haughty  heart  at  the  words.  Why,  these 
very  women  had  as  much  right  to  be  proud  of  him,  to 


852  VERT    MYSTERIOUS. 

speak  to  liim,  to  be  near  liim,  as  she  had.  Proud  of  liim ! 
She  thought  she  had  cause  to  hate  him,  she  was  wicked 
enough  to  -wish  to  hate  hiui,  but  she  could  not.  Neichei- 
could  she  despise  him ;  she  might  treat  him  as  coldly  as 
fihe  pleased,  but  she  never  conld  treat  him  with  contempt. 
There  was  a  dignity  about  the  man,  the  dignit}^  of  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  scholar,  that  asserted  itself,  and  made  her 
respect  him,  as  she  never  had  respected  any  other  man. 
Once  or  twice  a  strange  thought  had  come  across  her ; 
a  thought  that  if  he  would  come  to  her  and  tell  her  he 
was  growing  to  love  her,  and  ask  her  not  to  be  so  cruelly 
cold  and  repellent,  she  might  lay  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
with  the  humility  of  a  little  child,  and  tmst  him,  and 
yield  hertielf  to  him  as  her  friend  and  protector  through 
life,  and  be  simply  and  honestly  happy,  like  other  women. 
But  he  never  did  this ;  his  manner  never  changed  to  her  in 
the  slightest  degree.  She  had  nothing  to  complain  of  fr(/m 
him,  she  had  every  cause  to  be  grateful  for  his  kindness  and 
clemency.  And  so  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  pride,  and 
silenced  fiercely  her  mutinous  heart,  and  sought  happiness 
in  costly  dress  and  jewelry,  and  womanly  employment, 
and  incessant  visiting,  and  party-giving,  and  receptions, 
and  money-spending — and  failed  miserably.  Was  she 
never  to  be  happy?  She  had  everything  her  heart  could 
desire — a  beautiful  house,  servants  to -attend  her,  rich 
garments  to  wear,  and  she  fared  sumptuously  every  day ; 
but  for  all  that,  she  was  wretched.  I  do  not  suppose 
Dives  was  a  happy  man.  There  is  only  one  receipt  in 
tins  wide  world  for  happiness,  believe  me,  and  that  is 
goodness.  We  may  be  happy  for  a  brief  while,  with  the 
brief  happiness  of  a  lotus-eater ;  but  it  cannot  last — it 
cannot  last!  and  the  after-misery  is  worse  than  anything 
we  ever  suffered  before.  Olive  Henderson  had  said  she 
would  be  happy,  she  had  tried  to  compel  herself  to  be 
happy  ;  and  thought  for  a  few  poor  minutes,  sometimes, 
when  she  found  herself  the  belle  of  some  gay  party, 
dancing  and  laughing,  and  reigning  like  a  queen,  that  slie 
had  succeeded.  But  "Oh,  the  lees  are  bitter,  bitter!" 
Next  day  she  would  know  what  a  ghastly  mockery  it  had 
all  been,  and  she  would  watch  Paul  Wyndham,  mounted 


VEJiT    MYSTERIOUS.  353 

on  his  pony,  witli  his  dog  behind  him,  riding  awaj  to  his 
mother's  cottage,  with  a  passionately  rebellious  and  bitt-or 
heart,  and  wonder  if  he  or  any  one  else  in  the  wide 
world  would  really  care  if  they  found  her  lying  on  the 
floor  of  lier  costly  bondoir,  stark  and  dead,  slain  by  her 
own  hand. 

Paul  Wyndhara  appeared  to  be  very  fond  of  his 
mother,  if  he  was  not  of  his  wife.  He  rode  over  to  Hose- 
bush  Cottage  every  day,  rain  or  shine,  and  sometimes  staitl 
there  two  or  three  days  together. 

Mr.Wyndhani's  mother,  for  all  her  age  and  her  ill-healtli, 
could  play  the  piano,  it  seemed.  People  going  past  Rose- 
bush Cottage  had  often  heard  the  piano  going,  and  played, 
too,  with  masterly  skill.  At  first,  it  was  thought  to  be 
Mr.  Wyndham  himself,  who  was  quite  a  musician,  but 
they  soon  found  out  the  piano-playing  went  on  when  he 
was  known  to  be  at  Redmon.  Olive  heard  all  this,  and, 
like  Speckport,  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  sec  Mr. 
Wyndham's  mother ;  but  she  never  saw  her.  She  had 
asked  him,  carelessly,  if  his  mother  would  come  to  the 
house-warming,  and  he  had  said  '"  IsTo,  she  never  went 
out ;"  and  so  the  house-warming  had  come  off  without 
her. 

There  was  one  person  present  on  that  occasion  whom 
Speckport  was  surprised  to  see,  ^  and  that  was  Captain 
Cavendish.  Captain  Cavendish  had  received  a  card  of 
invitation,  and,  having  arrayed  himself  in  his  uniform, 
made  his  appearance  as  a  guest,  in  the  house  he  once 
hoped  to  call  his  own.  Tjiose  floating  stories,  whispered 
by  the  servants,  and  current  in  the  town,  of  the  cold  dis- 
union between  husband  and  wife,  had  reached  him,  and 
delighted  him  more  than  words  can  tell.  After  all,  then,  she 
hadlovcd  him  !  Doubtless  she  spent  her  nights  in  secret 
weeping  and  mourning  for  his  loss,  fit  to  tear  lier  black 
hair  out  by  the  roots,  in  her  anguish  at  having  lost  him. 
He  was  very  late  in  arriving  at  Redmon,  purposely  late  ; 
and  he  could  imagine  her  straining  her  eyes  toward  the 
drawing-room  door,  her  heart  throbbing  at  every  fresh 
announcement,  and  turning  sick  with  disappointment 
when  she  found  it  was  not  he.     Would  she  betray  any 


354  VERT    MYSTERIOUS. 

emotion  when,  she  met  him  ?  Would  her  voice  falter,  her 
eves  droop,  her  color  rise,  or  her  hand  turn  cold  in  hip 
own? 

Oh,  Captain  Cavendish !  you  might  have  spared  your- 
self the  trouble  of  all  these  conjectures.  Not  one  poor 
thought  had  she  ever  given  you ;  not  once  had  your  image 
crossed  her  mind,  until  you  stood  bowing  before  her ;  and 
then,  when  she  spoke  to  you,  ever}''  nerve  was  as  steady  as 
when,  an  instant  later,  she  welcomed  old  Squire  Tod.  Jler 
eyes  were  following  furtively  another  form,  nothing  like 
so  tall,  or  stately,  or  gallant  as  your  own.  Captain  Caven- 
dish; another  form  that  went  in  and  oat  through  the 
crowd — the  form  of  her  husband,  who  welcomed  every 
one  with  a  face  infinitely  kind  and  genial,  who  found 
partners  for  forlorn  damsels,  who  stopped  to  talk  cour- 
teously to  neglected  wall-llowers,  and  who  came  to  where 
his  wife  stood  every  now  and  tlien,  and  addressed  her  as 
any  other  gentlemim  in  his  own  house  miglit  address  liis 
wiie,  showing  no  sign  of  coldness  or  disunion  on  his  part, 
at  least. 

Captain  Cavendish  was  disappointed,  and  all  Spock- 
port  with  him.  Where  was  the  cold  neglect  on  Mr.  Wynd- 
liam's  part,  they  had  come  prepared  to  see  and  relish  ?  where 
the  haughty  disdain  of  the  neglected  and  resentful  wife? 
They  were  calmly  polite  to  one  another,  and  what  more 
was  ]-eqnired  ?  As  long  as  Mr.  Wyndham  did  not  beat 
her,  or  Mrs.  Wyndham  showed  no  sign  of  intending  to 
elope  with  any  other  man,  Speckport  could  see  no  reason 
why  it  slii  )uld  set  them  down  as  other  than  a  very  well- 
matched  couple. 

It  was  noticeable  that  Mi\  Wyndham  that  night  paid 
rather  marked  attention  to  one  of  the  lady  guests  present ; 
but  as  the  lady  vrore  black  bombazine  and  crape,  a  widow's 
cup,  :iud  was  on  the  frosty  side  of  tittj,  uo  scandal  came 
of  it.  The  lady  was  poor  Mrs.  Marsh,  who  had  come, 
nothing  loth,  and  who  simpered  a  good  deal,  and  was 
fluttered  and  flattered  to  find  herself  thus  honored  bj  the 
master  of  Redmon. 

"  Her  story  is  a  very  sad  one,  Olive,"  he  said  ;  "  I 


VEBY    MYSTERIOUS.  355 

am  glad  you  settled  tliat  anniiity  upon  her ;  it  does  you 
credit.'' 

Olive  said  nothing;  but  a  dark  red  streak  flashed 
across  her  face — a  burning  glow  of  shame.  She  was 
thinking  of  j\Irs.  Major  Whcatly's  governess — wh.-vt 
wonld  Paul  AVyudliam  say  of  that  pale  little  girl  if  he 
knew  all  ?  Mrs.  Wyndham  had  repeatedly  invited  Miss 
Iwose  to  Redmon ;  and  Miss  Rose  had  come  two  or  three 
times,  but  never  when  there  was  company. 

Mr.  Wyndham  led  Mrs.  Marsh  in  to  sripper,  and  Fat 
beside  her,  and  tilled  her  plate  with  good  things,  and 
talked  to  her  all  through  that  repast.  His  wife,  sitting 
between  Major  Wheatly  and  the  Rev.  Augustus  Tod, 
still  watched  him  askanee,  and  v/ondered  what  he  could 
find  to  say  to  that  insipid  and  faded  nonentity,  who  sim- 
pered like  a  school-girl  as  she  listened  to  him.  13ut  shortly 
after  conducting  Mrs.  Marsh  back  to  the  bahrcora,  and 
seeing  her  safely  seated  at  a  card-table,  he  disappeared, 
and  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Every  one  was  so  bnsy 
dancing,  and  flirting,  and  card-playing,  that  his  absence 
was  qiiite  unnoticed — no,  not  quite,  his  wife  had  observed 
it.  if  was  sti'auge  the  habit  she  had  insensibly  contracted, 
of  watching  this  man,  for  whom  she  did  not  care — or  per- 
suaded herself  she  did  not — of  listeriing  for  his  voice,  his 
step,  and  feeling  better  satisfied,  somehow,  to  see  him  in 
the  room.  Where  had  he  gone  to ?  What  was  he  doing? 
How  could  he  be  so  rude  as  to  go  and  leave  their  guests  ? 
She  grew  distrait,  then  fidgety,  then  feverishly  and  fool- 
ishly anxious  to  know  what  he  could  be  about,  and  who 
lie  was  with ;  and  gliding  unobserved  from  the  crowded 
ballroom,  she  visited  the'dining-room,  the  library,  peeped 
into  his  own  room,  which  she  never  condescended  to  en- 
ter; all  in  vain.     Mr.  Wyndham  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  It  is  very  strange!"  said  Mrs.  Wyndham  to  herself. 
knitting  her  black  brow — always  lier  habit  when  annoyed. 
"  It  is  most  extraordinary  conduct !  I  think  he  might 
show  a  little  more  attention  to  his  guests." 

The  library  windows  opened  oa  the  velvet  lawn,  and 
were  opened  now  to  their  widest  extent,  to  admit  the  cool 
night  air.     She  stepped  out  into  the  pale  starlit  night,  her 


356  VEJiY    MYSTERIOUS. 

rich  ruby  velvet  dress  aad  starry  diamonds  glowing  dimly 
in  the  luminous  darkness.  As  she  walked  across  the  lawn, 
glad  to  be  alone  for  a  moment,  a  figure  all  in  white  flew 
past  her  with  a  rusli,  but  not  before  she  had  recognized 
tlie  frightened  face  of  Laura  Blair. 

"  Laura !"  she  said,  "  is  it  you  ?  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" ,    , 

Laura  stopped,  and  passed  her  hands  over  her  beating 
heart. 

"  I  have  had  such  a  scare  !  I  came  out  of  the  conser- 
vatory five  minutes  ago,  on  to  the  lawn  to  get  cool,  when 
I  saw  a  figure  tliat  bad  been  standing  under  the  trees  dart 
behind  one  of  them,  as  if  to  hide.  The  person  seemed  to 
have  been  watching  the  house,  and  was  trying  to  hide  from 
me.     It  frightened  me,  and  I  ran." 

Oliv'e  Wyndham  was  physicially  as  brave  as  a  man : 
she  never  screamed,  or  ran,  or  went  into  hysterics,  from 
palpable  terror.  Now,  she  drew  Laura's  arm  within  her 
own,  and  turned  in  the  direction  that  young  lady  liad 
come. 

"  You  little  goose,"  she  said,  "  it  was  some  of  the  peo- 
ple here,  out  to  get  cool  like  yourself.  We  will  go  and 
see  who  they  are." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is  any  of  the  people  here.  I  think 
it  was  a  woman  in  a  long  cloak,  with  the  hood  over  her 
head.     Oh,  I  had  rather  not  go  !" 

"  Nonsense  !  it  was  some  of  the  servants,  or  some  curi- 
ous, inquisitive  straggler,  come  to " 

She  stopped,  for  Laura  had  made  a  warning  gesture, 
and  whispered,  "Look  there!"  Olive  looked.  Directly 
opposite  the  house,  and  shrinking  behind  a  clump  of  cedar 
trees,  on  the  edge  of  a  thickly-wooded  portion  of  the 
grounds,  she  could  see  a  figure  indistinctly  in  the  star- 
light— the  figure  of  a  female  it  looked,  wearing,  as  Laura 
said,  a  long  cloak,  with  the  hood  drawn  over  tlie  head  and 
shrouding  the  face.  They  were  in  deep  sliadow  them- 
selves, and  Laura  hid  her  white  dress  behind  some  laurel 
bushes.  Olive's  curiosity  was  excited  by  the  steadfast 
manner  in  which  the  shrouded  figure  watched  the  house 
— through  those  large,  lighted  windows,  Olive  knew  the 


^EliY    MYSTERIOUS.  S57 

person  could  distinctly  see  into  tlie  drawing-room,  if  not 
distinguish  the  people  there. 

"  Laura,"  she  whispered,  "  I  must  iind  out  who  that 
is.  I  can  get  round  without  being  seen — ^}'0u  remain  and 
wait  for  me  here." 

Keeping  in  the  shadow,  Olive  skirted  the  lawn  and 
round  the  cedar  clump,  without  being  seen  or  heard  by 
the  watcher.  She  glided  behind  the  stunted  trees ;  but 
thougl)  she  was  almost  near  enough  to  touch  tlie  singular 
apparition,  she  could  not  see  its  face,  it  was  so  shrouded 
by  the  cowl-like  hood.  While  she  stood  waiting  for  it  to 
turn  round,  a  man  crossed  the  lawn  hurriedly,  excitedly, 
and,  with  a  suppressed  exclamation,  clasped  the  cloaked 
figure  in  his  arms.  Olive  hardly  repressed  a  cry — the  man 
w^s  her  husband,  Paul  Wyndham  ! 

"  My  darling !"  she  heard  him  say,  in  a  voice  she  never 
forgot — a  voice  so  full  of  infinite  love  and  tenderness,  that 
it  thrilled  to  her  very  heart—"  my  darling,  why  have  you 
done  this?  I  have  been  searching  for  you  everywhere 
since  I  heard  you  were  here.  My  love  !  my  love  I  how 
could  you  be  so  rash  ?"  4 

"  I  was  so  lonely,  Paul,  without  you !"  a  woman's  voice 
answered — a  voice  that  had  a  strangely-familiar  sound,  and 
Olive  saw  the  cloaked  figure  clinging  to  him,  trustingly. 
"  I  was  so  lonely,  and  I  wanted  to  see  theui  all.  But  I 
am  very  cold  now,  and  I  want  to  go  home !" 

"  I  'shall  take  you  home  at  once,  my  darling !  Tour 
carriage  is  waiting  at  the  gate.  Come,  I  know  a  path 
through  this  wood  that  will  lead  us  out — it  will  not  do  to 
go  down  the  avenue.  Oh,  my  dearest !  never  be  so  rash 
again !     You  might  have  been  seen." 

They  were  gone;  disappearing  into  the  black  cedar 
woods,  like  two  dark  specters,  and  Olive  Wyndham  came 
out  from  her  place  of  concealment,  and  stood  an  instant  or 
two  like  one  who  has  been  stunned  by  a  blow.  Laura 
Blair  rose  up  at  her  approach  with  a  startled  face,  and  saw 
that  she  was  ghastly  white. 

"  Oily !"  Laura  said,  in  a  scared  voice,  "  wasn't  that 
Mr.  Wyndham  who  went  away  with—with— that  per- 
son?" 


868  TER7    MYSTERIOUS. 

Olive  Wyndliam  turned  suddenly  upon  her,  and  grasp- 
ed lier  arm,  with  a  violence  that  ijiade  Laura  cry  out  with 
pain. 

"  Laura  Blair  !*'  she  cried,  with  passionate  fierceness 
in  her  voice,  "  if  ever  you  say  a  word  of  what  you  have 
seen  to-night,  I  will  kill  you  !" 

With  which  remark,  Mrs.  "Wyndham  walked  away, 
stepped  through  the  library  window,  and  into  the  house. 
She  was  in  the  drawing-room  when  poor  Laura  ventured 
in,  sitting  at  the  piano,  enchanting  her  guests  with  some 
new  and  popular  music,  but  with  a  face  that  had  blanched 
to  a  sickly  white.  She  might  play,  she  might  talk,  she 
might  laugh  and  dance,  but  she  could  not  banish  that 
frozen  look  from  her  face ;  and  her  friends,  looking  at  her, 
inqi^red  anxiously  if  she  was  ill ;  no,  she  said  she  was  not 
ill ;  but  she  had  been  out  in  the  grounds  a  short  time  be- 
fore, and  had  got  chilled — ^that  was  all. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mr.  Wyndliam  re-appeared  in  the 
drawing-room,  with  a  calm  face  that  hid  his  secret  guilt 
well.  Some  of  the  people  were  already  beginning  to  de- 
part, and  his  absence  was  unknown  to  all  save  two.  Once 
he  spoke  to  his  wife,  remarking  on  her  paleness,  and  tell- 
ing her  she  had  fatigued  herself  dancing ;  and  she  had 
laughed  strangely  and  answered,  yes,  it  had  been  a  delight- 
ful evening  all  through,  and  she  had  never  enjoyed  herself 
so  much.  And  then  she  was  animatedly  bidding  the  last 
of  her  guests  good-night,  and  the  lights  were  lied,  the  gar- 
lands dead,  and  the  banquet-hall  deserted.  And  Paul 
Wyndham  bade  her  good  night,  and  left  her  alone  in  her 
velvet  robes  and  diamond  necklace,  and  splendid  misery, 
and  never  dreamed  that  he  was  found  out. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wyndham  did  not  meet  again  until  Sim- 
day,  The  next  day,  Friday,  the  young  author  had  gone 
over  to  E,osebnsh  Cottage  with  his  MSS.  and  fishing-rod, 
and  there  spent  the  rest  of  the  week.  The  dissipation  at 
llcd'.iion,  the  constant  round  of  dressing,  and  visiting,  and 
party-giving,  knocked  him  up,  he  told  Val  Blake,  and  un- 
fitted him  for  work ;  and,  at  the  cottage,  he  could  recruit, 
and  smoke,  and  get  on  with  his  writing, 

Speckport  saw  Mrs,  Wyndham  dri-ang,  and  riding,  and 


VERY    MYSTERIOUS.  359 

promenading  through  its  streets,  that  day  and  the  next, 
beautifnllj  dressed  and  looking  beautiful,  but  Speckport 
never  once  dreamed  of  the  devouring  jealousy  that  had 
eaten  its  way  to  ner  inmost  heart,  and  must  hitlierto  be 
added  to  her  other  tortures.  Yes,  Olive  Wyndham  was 
jenlous,  with  the  fierce  jealousy  of  such  natuies  as  hers — 
and  your  dark  women  can  be  jealous  of  your  fair  women 
with  a  vengeance.  And  as  real  jealousy  without  love  is 
simply  an  impossibility,  the  slow  truth  broke  upon  OHve 
Wyndham  that  she  had  grown  to  love  her  husband. 

How  it  had  come  about,  Heaven  only  knows ;  she  had 
honestly  done  her  best  to  hate  him.  But  that  mischievous 
little  blind  god,  Hying  his  ai-rows  at  random,  had  ehot  one 
straight  to  her  haughty  heart.  This,  then,  was  the  secret 
of  all  her  anxiety  and  watchfuhiess,  though  she  had  never 
suspected  it — she  might  have  been  a  long  time  in  suspect' 
ing  it,  but  for  the  discovery  made  in  the  grounds  that 
night.  She  loved  him  who  M'ould  never  love  her.  She 
knew  him  indifferent  to  hereelf ;  but  while  she  thought 
him  equally  indifferent  to  every  one  else,  she  had  not  cared 
much ;  but  now,  but  now !  Who  was  this  woman  who 
had  stepped  between  her  and  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
married  i 

Who  was  she?  who  was  she?  she  asked  herself  the 
miserable  question  a  hundred  times  a  minute — she  could 
think  of  nothing  else — but  she  nevei'  could  answer  it.  In 
all  Speckport  she  could  not  fix  upon  any  one  she  knew 
Paul  Wyndham  was  likely  to  address  such  words  as  she 
had  heard  to.  How  their  memory  thrilled  her — those 
tones  so  full  of  passionate  love — it  made  her  grind  her 
teeth  to  think  of  them. 

"  If  I  had  her  here,  whoever  she  is,"  she  thought,  "  I 
could" tear  the  eyes  out  of  her  head,  and  send  her  back  to 
him  streaming  blood !  Oh,  who  can  sire  be  ?  who  can  she 
be?" 

It  was  Catty  Clowrie  who  first  changed  the  course  of 
her  ideas,  and  set  her  off  at  a  new  tangent.  Catty  was 
sewing  at  the  villa;  and,  as  Mi-s.  Wyndham,  in  her  mis- 
erable restlessness,  wandered  from  room  to  room,  she  came 
at  last  to  a  pleasant  vine-grown  glass  porch  at  the  back  of 


860  VEBT    MYSTERIOUS. 

the  house,  where  Miss  Clowrie  sat  stitching  away  in  the 
afternoon  sunsliiiie.  An  open  book  lay  beside  her,  as  if 
she  bad  just  been  reading,  and  Olive  saw  it  was  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham's  volume  of  travels.  She  took  it  up  with  a  strange 
contradictoiy  feeling  of  tenderness  for  the  insensate  thing. 

"  IIow  do  you  like  it  ?"  she  asked,  looking  at  his  por- 
trait in  front,  the  deep,  thoughtful  eyes  gazing  back  at 
her  from  the  engraving,  with  the  same  inscrutable  look 
she  knew  so  well. 

"  I  think  it  is  lovely,"  said  Catty.  "  I  wish  I  could 
finish  it,  but  I  must  get  on  with  my  work.  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham  must  be  wonderfully  clever  ;  his  descriptions  set  the 
places  before  you  as  if  you  saw  them." 

Olive  sat  down,  and  began  talking  to  this  girl,  whom 
she  instinctively  disliked,  about  her  husband  and  her  hus- 
band's books.  Catty,  snapping  off  her  thread,  asked  at 
last: 

"  Mr.  Wyndham  is  not  at  home  to-day,  is  he  ?  I  haven't 
seen  him." 

"  Ko,"  said  his  wife,  carelessly,  "  he  has  gone  over  to 
Rosebush  Cottage." 

Miss  Clowrie  gave  an  unpleasant  little  laugh. 

"  Of  course  he  is  at  Rosebush  Cottage !  Every  one 
knows  Mr.  Wyndham  never  goes  anywhere  else !  If  he 
had  a  Fair  Rosamond  shut  up  there,  he  could  not  be  fonder 
of  going  there.  Mr.  Wyndham  must  be  veiy  much  at- 
tached to  his  mother."    ' 

There  was  a  long  blank  pause  after  her  crnel  speech, 
during  which  the  mistress  of  Redmon  never  took  the  book 
from  before  her  face.  She  felt  that  she  was  deadly  pale, 
and  had  sense  enough  left  not  to  wish  Catty  Clowrie  to 
see  it.  She  rose  up  presently,  throwing  the  book  on  the 
ground  as  she  did  so,  and  walked  out  of  the  porch  with 
such  tierce  rebellious  bitterness  in  hei  heart,  as  never  at 
her  woi-st  of  misery  had  she  felt  before.  A  Fair  Rosa- 
mond !  Yes,  the  secret  was  out !  and  what  a  blind  fool 
she  must  have  been  not  to  have  seen  it  before!  It  was 
no  sickly  old  mother  Paul  Wyndham  had  shut  up  in  Rose- 
bush Cottage,  but  a  fair  inamorata.  It  was  she,  too,  whom 
they  had  seen  in  the  grounds  the  previous  night ;  she  who, 


VERT    MYSTERIOUS.  861 

•vrearied  of  her  pretty  prison  without  him,  and  fall  of  cu- 
riosit}'^,  doubtless,  had  come  to  Redmon.  "  I  was  so  lonely 
without  you,  Paul !" — ?he  remembered  the  sweet  and 
strangely-familiar  voice  that  had  said  those  words,  and  the 
tender  caress  which  had  answered  them;  and  she  sank 
down  in  her  jealous  rage  and  despair  in  her  own  room, 
luting  herself  aud  all  the  world.  Oh,  my  poor  Olive ! 
Surely  retribution  had  overtaken  you,  surely  judgment 
had  fallen  upon  you  even  in  this  life,  for  your  sins  of  am- 
bition and  pride ! 

Mrs.  Wyndham  was  not  much  of  a  church-goer,  but 
ratlier  the  reverse.  She  had  a  heathenish  way  of  lolling 
in  her  boudoir  Sundays,  and  listening  with  a  dreamy  sen- 
suous pleasure  to  the  clashing  of  bells,  and  falling  asleep 
when  they  ceased,  and  awakening  to  read  novels  until 
dinner-time. 

But  sometimes  she  went  to  the  fashionable  Episcopal 
church,  and  yawned  in  the  face  of  the  Rev.  Augustus 
Tod,  expounding  the  word  rather  drawlingly  in  his  white 
sm'plice,  and  sometimes  she  went  to  the  cathedral  with 
Laura  Blair.  She  took  the  same  sensuous,  dreamy  pleasure 
in  going  there  that  she  did  in  listening  to  the  bells,  or  in 
reading  Owen  Meredith's  poetry.  She  liked  to  watch  tlie 
purple,  and  violet,  and  niby,  and  amber  glows  from  the 
stained-glass  windows  on  the  heads  of  the  faithful ;  she 
liked  to  listen  to  the  grand  solemn  music  of  the  old  church, 
to  inhale  the  floating  incense,  and  listen  to  the  chanting 
of  the  robed  priests.  And  best  of  all  she  liked  to  see  the 
Sisters  of  Charity  glide  noiselessly  in  througli  some  side- 
door,  with  vailed  faces  and  bowed  heads,  and  to  weave 
romances  about  them  all  the  time  high  mass  w^as  going  on. 
Matter-of-fact  Catholics  about  her  wondered  why  Mrs. 
Wyn<lh»iu  stared  so  at  the  Sisters,  and  it  is  probable  the 
Sisters  themselves  would  have  laughed  good-naturedly  had 
they  known  of  the  tale  of  romance  with  which  the  dark- 
eyed  lieii-ess  invested  them.  But  it  was  not  to  look  at  the 
nuns — though  she  did  look  at  them,  almost  wishing  she 
were  -one  too,  and  at  rest  from  the  great  world-strife — it 
was  not  to  look  at  them  she  had  come  to  the  cathedral  to- 
day, but  to  listen  to  a  celebrated  preacher  somewhere  from 
16 


3G2  VERY    MYSTERIOUS. 

the  United  States.  Laura  had  told  her  he  was  a  Jesuit — • 
those  terrible  Jesuits! — and  Olive  had  almost  as  much 
curiosity  to  see  a  Jesuit  as  a  nun.  So  she  drove  to  the 
cathedral  in  her  carriage,  and  sat  in  Mr.  Blair's  cushioned 
pew,  and  watched  the  people  filling  the  large  building, 
and  listened  to  the  grand,  solemn  strains  of  the  organ 
touched  by  the  inasterly  hand  ;  and  all  listlessly  enough. 
But  suddenly  her  heart  gave  a  quick  plunge,  and  all  list- 
lessness  was  gone.  There,  coming  up  the  aisle,  behind 
the  sexton,  was  a  gentleman  and  a  lady ;  a  gentleman 
whose  step  she  would  have  known  the  wide  world  over, 
and  a  lady  she  was  more  desirous  of  seeing  than  any  other 
being  on  earth.  It  was  Mr.  Wyndham  and  his  mother, 
and  dozens  of  heads  turned  in  surprise  and  curiosity,  to 
look  at  that  hitherto  invisible  mother.  But  she  was  in- 
visible still,  at  least  her  face  was,  for  the  long  black  crape 
vail  she  wore  was  so  impenetrably  thick,  no  human  eyes 
could  pierce  it.  They  saw  she  was  tall  and  very  slender, 
although  she  wore  a  great  double  black  woolen  shawl  that 
would  have  made  the  slightest  girlish  form  look  clumsy 
and  stout.  She  bent  forward  slightly  as  she  walked, 
but  the  stoop  was  not  the  stoop  of  age — Olive  Wyndham 
saw  that.  Mr.  Wyndham,  hat  in  hand,  his  mother  hanging 
on  his  arm,  his  pale  face  gravely  reverent,  entered  the 
pew  the  sexton  indicated,  after  his  mother. 

It  was  directly  in  front  of  Mr.  Blair's,  facing  the 
grand  altar,  and  the  jealous  wife  had  an  excellent  chance 
of  watching  her  husband  and  his  companion. 

Paul  Wyndliam  was  not  a  Catholic — he  did  not  pre- 
tend to  be  anything  in  particular,  a  favorite  creed  with 
his  countrymen,  I  think — but  he  was  a  gentleman ;  so  he 
rose  and  sat  and  knelt  as  the  worshipers  about  him  did, 
and  never  once  turned  his  back  to  the  altar  to  stare  at  the 
^  choir. 

Mrs.  Wyndham,  Senior,  made  no  attempt  to  raise  hor 
vail  during  the  whole  service.  She  knelt  most  of  the 
time  with  her  face  lying  on  the  front  rail  of  tlie  pew,  as 
if  in  prayer — a  good  deal  to  the  surprise  of  those  wko  saw 
her  and  imagined  her  not  of  their  faith. 

Olive   never  took   her  eyes  off  her — the  Sisters  of 


VEIiY    IJTSTEIilOUS.  803 

Charity,  the  swinging  censei*s,  the  mitred  bishop,  the 
robed  priests,  the  solemn  ceremonies,  the  swelling  music, 
were  all  unheard  and  unseen — that  woman  in  front  ab- 
sorbed every  sense  she  possessed.  Even  when  the  Jesuit 
mounted  to  the  pulpit,  she  only  gave  him  one  glance,  and 
saw  that  he  was  tall  and  thin  and  sallow,  and  not  a  bit 
oilv  and  Jesuit-like,  and  returned  to  her  watching  of  Mr. 
W'yndhain's  mother.  That  lady  seemed  to  pay  attention 
to  the  s3r;non,  if  her  daughter-in-law  did  not,  and  a  very 
impressive  sermon  it  was,  and  one  Olive  Wyndham  would 
have  done  well  to  heed.  He  took  for  his  text  that  solemn 
warning  of  our  Lord,  "AVhat  will  it  avail  a  man  to  gain 
the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?"  and  the  hearts 
of  his  hearers  thrilled  within  them  with  wholesome  fear 
as  they  listened  to  the  discourse  which  followed.  "  You 
are  here  to-day,  but  you  may  be  gone  to-morrow.  O  my 
brethren  !*'  the  sonorous  voice,  which  rang  from  aisle  to 
aisle,  lik<3  the  trump  of  the  last  angel,  cried  ;  "  the  riches 
you  are  laboring  so  hard  to  amass  30U  may  never  enjoy. 
The  riches  for  which  you  toil  by  day  and  by  night  mean 
MOthiiig  if  your  poor  span  of  existence  permits  you  to 
accomplish  them.  Stop  and  think,  oh,  worldlings,  while 
time  remains.  Work  while  it  is  yet  day,  for  the  night  is 
at  hand,  jmd  work  for  the  glory  which  shall  las'  for 
eternity.  The  road  over  which  you  are  walking  leads 
nowIiei-3,  but  ends  abniptly  in  the  yawning  grave.  The 
fame  for  which  you  suffer  and  struggle  and  give  up  ease 
and  rest,  will  be  when  over  but  a  hollow  sound,  heard  for 
one  pool-,  pitiful  moment,  ere  your  ears  are  stilled  in  death, 
and  your  laurel  croAvn  dust  and  ashes.  The  great  of  this 
world — who  made  kings  their  puppets,  and  the  nations  of 
the  earth  their  toys — have  lived  their  brief  space  and  are 
gone,  and  what  avails  them  now  the  glory  and  the  great- 
ness they  won  ?  The  fame  of  Shak&speare,  of  Alexander, 
of  j^apolcon  of  France,  of  a  Byron,  and  a  ]\Iilton,  and  all 
other  great  men — great  in  this  life — remains  to  posterity, 
but  what  availed  it  all  to  them  at  the  judgment-seat  of 
God.  There,  at  that  awful  tribunal,  where  we  all  must 
stand,  nothing  but  their  good  works — if  they  ever  did 
good  works — could  soften  the  rigor  of  Divine  Justice. 


f64  VERY    MYSTERIOUS. 

Tlie  world  is  like  an  express-train,  rushing  madly  on,  with 
a  fathomless  precipice  at  the  end  ;  and  you  laugh  and  sing 
on  your  way  to  it,  consoling  yourself  with  the  thought, 
'  At  the  last  moment  I  will  repent,  and  all  will  be  well.' 
But  the  Divine  Justice  has  answered  you  beforehand — 
terribly  answered  you — '  You  shall  seek  me  and  you  shall 
not  find  me,  and  you  shall  die  in  your  sins !' " 

The  sermon  was  a  very  long  one,  and  a  very  terrible 
one,  likely  to  stir  the  dead  souls  of  the  most  hardened  sin- 
ner there.  It  was  noticeable  that  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother 
never  lifted  her  head  all  the  time,  but  that  it  lay  on  the 
pew-rail,  and  that  she  was  as  immovable  as  a  figure  carved 
in  ebony.  Olive  Wyndham  had  to  listen,  and  her  cheek 
blanched  as  she  did  so.  Was  this  sermon  preached  for 
her  ?  Was  she  bartering  her  immortal  soul  for  dross,  so 
soon  to  be  taken  from  her  ?  And  then  a  wild  terror  took 
possession  of  her,  and  she  dared  think  no  longer.  She 
could  have  put  her  fingers  to  her  ears  to  shut  out  the 
inexorable  voice,  thundering  awfully  to  her  conscience : 
"  Yon  shall  seek  me  and  you  shall  not  find  me,  and  you 
shall  die  in  your  sins."  There  was  a  dead  silence  of 
dumb  fear  in  the  cathedral  when  the  eloquent  preacher 
descended,  and  very  devout  were  the  hearers  until  the 
conclusion  of  mass.  Then  they  poured  out,  a  good  deal 
more  subdued  than  when  they  had  entered,  and  Olive  had 
to  go  with  the  rest.  Mr.  Wyndham  and  his  mother 
showed  no  sign  of  stirring,  nor  did  they  leave  their  pew 
until  the  last  straggler  of  the  congregation  was  gone.  The 
carriage  from  Hosebush  Cottage  was  waiting  outside  the 
gates,  and  Mr.  Wyndham  assisted  his  mother  in,  and  they 
drove  olf. 

Olive  dined  at  Mr.  Blair's  that  day,  and  heard  them 
discussing  the  sermon,  and  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
Mr.  Wyndham  and  his  mother.  Olive  said  very  little — 
the  panic  in  her  soul  had  not  ceased.  The  shortness  of 
time,  the  length  of  eternity — that  temble  eternity ! — had 
never  been  brought  so  vividly  before  her  before.  Was 
the  express-train  in  which  she  was  flying  through  life  near 
tlie  end — near  that  awful  chasm  where  all  was  blackness 
and    horror?      Tinman    things    frittered   away — earthly 


VERY    MYSTERIOUS.  365 

troubles,  gigantic  before,  looked  puny  and  insignificant 
seen  in  the  light  of  eternity — so  soon  to  begin,  never  to 
end !  She  had  been  awakened — she  never  could  sleep 
again  the  blind,  heathenish  sleep  that  had  been  hers  all 
her  life,  or  woe  to  her  if  she  could. 

Mr.  Blake  and  Miss  Blair  walked  home  with  her  in  the 
hazy  September  moonlight.  They  found  Mr,  Wyndhara 
sitting  in  one  of  the  basket-chairs  in  the  glass  porch, 
looking  up  at  the  moon  as  seen  through  the  smoke  of  hia 
cigar,  and  Olive's  inconsistent  heart  throbbed  as  if  it 
would  break  from  its,  prison  and  fly  to  him.  Oh,  if  ah 
this  miserable  acting  could  end ;  if  he  would  only  love 
her,  and  let  her  love  him,  she  would  yield  forever  the 
wealth  that  had  never  brought  her  happiness,  and  be  his 
true  and  loving  wife  from  henceforth,  and  try  and  atone 
for  the  sins  of  the  past.  She  might  be  a  good  woman  yet, 
if  her  life  could  only  be  simple  and  true  like  other 
women,  and  all  this  miserable  secresy  at  an  end.  But, 
though  the  silken  skirt  of  her  rich  robe  touched  him,  they 
could  not  have  been  further  apart  if  the  wide  woi'Id 
divided  them.  She  could  have  laid  her  head  down  on  the 
table  there,  and  wept  passionate,  scalding  tears,  so  utterly 
forlorn  and  wretched  and  lonely  and  unloved  did  she  feel. 
Slie  could  not  talk — something  rose  in  her  throat  and 
choked  her — but  she  listened  to  Mr.  Wyndham  telling  in 
his  quiet  voice  how  he  had  persuaded  his  mother  to  go 
out  that  day  to  hear  the  famous  preacher,  and  how  ho 
thought  it  had  done  her  good. 

Val  and  Laura  did  not  stay  long,  but  set  out  on  their 
moonlit  homeward  way.  Ann  Nettleby  sat  in  her  own 
doorway,  and  Val  paused  to  speak  to  her. 

"  No  news  of  Cherrie,  yet,  Ann  ?" 

Ann  made  the  usual  reply,  "  No,"  and  they  walked  on, 
talking  of  lost  Cherrie. 

"  I'll  find  her  out  yet,'-'  Mr.  Blake  said,  determinedly. 
"  I  don't  despair,  even  though — well,  what's  the  matter  f ' 

Laura  had  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  clun^  suddenly 
to  his  arm.  Redmon  road  was  lonely,  as  you  know,  and 
not  a  creature  was  to  be  seen;  but  Laura  was  pointing  to 
where,  under  the  trees,  in  the  moouKght,  a  woman  w.is 


866  VAL'8    DISCOVERT. 

standing  stfll.  A  woman  or  a  spirit,  which  ?  For  it  waa 
robed  in  white  from  head  to  foot,  and  a  shower  of  pale 
hair  drifted  over  its  shouldere.  The  face  turned  toward 
theiTL  as  they  approached,  a  face  as  white  as  the  djress,  and 
liUura  Blair  uttered  a  loud  shriek  as  she  saw  it,  reeled 
and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  Yal  caught  her  in  liis 
anus. 

Yal  had  turned  white  himself,  for  the  pale  shadow 
under  the  trees  had  worn  the  dead  face  of  Nathalie  Marsh  ! 
As  Laura  shrieked  it  had  vanished,  in  a  ghostly  manner 
enough,  among  the  trees,  and  Val  Blake  was  left  standing 
gaping  in  the  middle  of  Redmon  road,  holding  a  fainting 
lady  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

val's    disooveey. 

R.  BLAKE  was  in  a  predicament.  Some  men 
there  are  who  would  by  no  means  turn  aghast 
at  being  obliged  to  hold  a  fair,  fainting  dam- 
sel in  their  arms,  but  Mr.  Blake  was  none  of 
these.  Should  he  lay  her  down  on  the  road 
while  lie  went  for  help,  or  should  he  carry  her  to  the 
Nettleby  Cottage  ?  Yes,  that  was  the  idea  ;  and  Mr.  Blake 
lifted  the  fair  faiated  in  his  stalwart  arms,  and  bore  her 
off  like  a  man.  The  cottage  was  very  near,  and  Mr.  Blake 
was  big  and  strong ;  but  for  all  that  he  was  in  a  very  red 
and  panting  state  when  he  gave  a  thundering  knock  at 
the  cottage-door.  One  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  of 
female  loveliness  is  no  joke  to  carry,  even  for  a  short  dis: 
tance ;  and  he  leaned  Miss  Blair  up  against  the  door-post 
in  such  a  way  that  she  nearly  toppled  over  on  Miss  Ann 
Nettleby's  head,  when  that  young  lady  opened  the  door. 
Ann  screamed  at  the  sight,  but  Mr.  Blake  pushed  past  her 
with  very  little  ceremony. 


VAL'S    DISCOVERT.  867 

"  She's  only  fainted,  Ann  I  Don't  make  a  howling. 
Get  some  water,  or  hartshorn,  or  something,  and  bring 
her  to." 

Miss  A  nn  Nettlebj  was  a  joung  ladj  of  considerable 
piesence  cf  mind,  and  immediately  began  to  apply  re- 
storatives. Whether  it  was  that  nature  was  coming  romid 
of  her  own  accord,  or  from  the  intrinsic  merit  of  burnt 
feathei's  held  under  her  nose,  and  cold  water  doused  in 
her  face.  Miss  Blair,  with  a  long,  shivering  sigh,  consented 
at  last  to  come  to,  and  looked  around  her  with  a  blank, 
bewildered  stare. 

"  Well,  Laura,"  said  Yal,  stooping  over  her,  "how  do 
you  find  yourself,  now  V 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  recollection  seemed  to  flash 
vividly  across  Laura's  mind.  She  was  lying  on  the  couch 
in  the  front  room  ;  but  she  started  up  with  a  scream,  her 
eyes  dilating,  and,  to  Mr.  Brake's  dismay,  flung  herself 
into  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  Val !"  she  cried,  flinging  wildly  to  him,  "  the 
ghost !  the  ghost !     I  saw  the  ghost  of  Nathalie  Marsh." 

Ann  Nettleby's  eyes  grew  as  round  as  saucers. 

•■'  The  ghost  of  Kathalie  Marsh !"  she  repeated. 
"Lor!  Miss  Laura,  you  haven't  seen  her  ghost,  have 
you  r' 

"  Come,  Laura,  don't  bo  frightened,"  said  Val,  sooth- 
ingly, though  sorely  perplexed  himself.  "  There  is  no 
ghost  here,  at  all  events.  Perhaps  you  had  better  go 
back  to  liedmon,  and  stay  with  Mrs.  Wyndham  all 
night." 

But  Laura,  gasping  and  hysterical,  protested  she  would 
not  venture  out  that  night  again  for  all  the  world,  and 
ended  the  declaration  by  falling  back  on  the  lounge  in  a 
violent  tit  of  hysterics.  Val  6ei;^d  his  hat  and  made  for 
the  door. 

"  Yow  look  after  her,  Ann,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  run  up 
to  liedmon  for  Mi's.  Wyndham.  She'll  die  before  morn- 
ing if  she  beeps  on  like  tliis." 

Mr.  Blake's  long  limbs  never  measured  off  the  ground 
BO  rapidly  before,  as  they  did  now  the  distance  between 
the  cottage  and  the  villa.     In  the  whole  courae  of  his 


868  VAL'8    DISG OVERT. 

life,  Yal  Blake  had  never  received  such  a  staggerer  as  ho 
had  this  night.  He  did  not  believe  in  ghosts ;  he  was  as 
devoid  of  imagination  as  a  pig ;  he  had  not  eaten  a  heavy 
Supper,  nor  di*ank,  one  single  glass  of  wine,  yet  he  had 
seen  the  ghost  of  Kathalie  Mai^sh  I  They  had  not  been 
talking  of  the  dead  girl;  they  had  not  been  thinking  of 
her ;  yet  she  had  stood  before  them,  wearing  the  face, 
and  looking  at  them  out  of  the  blue  eyes  they  knew  so 
well.  It  was  all  very  fine  to  talk  of  the  freaks  of  the 
sense  of  vision,  of  optical  illusions,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  It  was  no  illusion,  optical  or  othei*wise.  Nath- 
alie Marsh  was  dead  and  buried,  and  they  had  seen  her 
ghost  on  Redmon  Road. 

The  servant  who  answered  Mr.  Blake's  ring  looked 
rather  surprised,  but  showed  him  into  the  library,  and 
went  in  search  of  his  mistress.  Olive  came  in,  wearing 
the  dress  in  which  they  had  left  her,  and  Yal  told  his 
story  with  blunt  straightforwardness.  Olive's  black  eyes 
opened  to  their  widest  extent^ 

"  Seen  a  ghost !  My  dear  Mr.  Blake,  do  I  understand 
you  aright  ?" 

Mr.  Blake  gave  one  of  his  nods. 

"  Yes.  It  was  a  ghost,  and  it  frightened  Laura  into  a 
fit ;  and  she's  in  one  still,  down  there  at  Nettleby's.  It 
was  a  ghost,  I'll  take  my  oath  of  it ;  for  it  had  Nathahe 
Marsh's  face,  and  Nathalie  Marsh  is  dead  and  buried." 

There  was  a  slight  noise  at  the  door.  Olive  Wynd- 
nam's  quick  ear  recognized  it,  and  she  turned  round. 
Mr.  Blake  followed  her  eyes,  and  saw  Paul  Wyndham 
standing  in  the  doorway.  But  what  ailed  him  ?  His  face 
was  always  pal6;  but  it  looked  ghastly  at  this  mo- 
ment, turning  from  its  natural  hue  to  an  awful  ashen 
white.  * 

"  Hallo,  Wyndham  !"  cried  Yal,  "  what's  gone  wrong 
with  you  ?  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost  your- 
self." 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  said  Mr. 
Wyndham,  coming  quietly  forward.  "What  is  that 
about  ghosts,  and  where  have  you  left  Miss  Blair 'f 

"  At   Nettleby's,  fit   to   die   of  fright.     We    saw   a 


VAL'a    DISCOVERY.  3G9 

woman  who  has  been  dead  for  more  than  a  year,  on  the 
road ;  and  Laura  screamed  out,  and  dropped  down  like  a 
stone  !" 

"  My  dear  Blake !" 

"  I  wanted  her  to  come  up  here,"  pursued  Val,  "  and 
stay  all  night,  but  she  went  ofi  into  strong  hysterics  in  the 
middle  of  what  I  was  saying;  so  I  left  her  with  Ann 
JNettlcby,  and  came  uj)  here  for  Mrs.  "Wyndham." 

"  I  will  go  to  her  at  once,"  Olire  said,  ringing  the 
bell ;  "  but,  Mr.  Blake,  I  don't  undei-stand  this  at  all. 
Seen  a  ghost !     It  is  incomprehensible !" 

"  J  list  so !"  said  Mr.  Blake,  with  constitutional  com- 
posure, "  but  it's  true,  for  all  that.  Nathalie  Marsh  is 
dead,  and  buried  over  there  in  the  cemetery ;  but,  for  all 
that,  I  saw  her  as  plainly  this  night  on  Redmon  road  as 
ever  I  saw  her  in  my  life !" 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  Blake's  manner  that 
carried  conviction  with  it,  and  Mr.  Blake  was  not  the  man 
to  tell  a  cock-and-bull  story,  or  let  himself  be  easily  de- 
ceived. Had  Laura  Blair,  a  fanciful  and  romantic  girl, 
alone  told  the  story,  every  one  would  have  laughed  in- 
credulously, but  Yai  Blake  was  another  story.  Matter-of- 
fact  Val  had  do  fancies,  natural  or  supernatural,  and  told 
his  story  with  a  resolute  air  of  conviction  now  that  per- 
plexed his  hearers.  Mr.  AVyndham  affected  to  laugh  ; 
but,  somehow,  the  laugh  was  mirthless,  and  his  face  and 
lips  remained  strangely  colorless. 

"It  was  some  one  playing  a  practical  joke,  depend 
upon  it,"  he  said ;  "  perhaps  that  imp  of  mischief,  Sam's 
brother.  As  to  ghosts — why,  Blake,  where  have  your 
wits  gone  to  V 

"  All  right,"  said  Yal;  "  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  it, 
you  know ;  but  if  it  wasn't  Nathalie  Marsh's  spirit,  then 
it  was  Nathalie  Mai-sh  in  the  flesh,  and  we  have  all  been 
deceived,  and  the  woman  buried  in  Speckport  cemetery  is 
not  the  woman  I  took  her  to  be." 

Paul  Wyudham  turned  round  suddenly,  and  walked 
to  the  window  and  looked  out.  He  turned  round  so  sud- 
denly that  neither  his  wife  nor  his  friend  saw  the  awful 
change  that  came  over  his  face  when  these  words  were 
10* 


870  VAL^S    DISGOVEHT. 

said.  A  servant  brought  Mi's.  Wjndham  her  liat  and 
Bhawl,  aud  lie  did  not  turn  round  again  until  they  were 
leaving  the  room.  Olive's  heart  stood  still  at  sight  of  the 
white  change  in  his  face. 

"  You  are  ill,  Mr.  Wyndham,"  she  said,  looldngathim 
eharplj  and  wistfully. 

"  You're  as  pale  as  a  ghost,"  said  Mr.  Blake  ;  "  don't 
come  with  us — what's  the  matter  ?" 

Mr.  Wyndham  gave  them  his  former  answer,  "  ]^oth- 
ing,"  and  watched  them  walking  down  the  moonlit 
avenue  together,  until  they  were  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
left  the  room,  put  on  his  hat  aud  overcoat,  locked  his  own 
door,  and  dropped  the  key  in  his  pocket,  and  followed 
them.  Half  an  hour  later,  while  Olive  aud  Yal  were 
persuading  Laura  to  come  with  them  to  Redmon,  he  was 
knocking  at  the  door  of  Rosebush  Cottage,  and  being  ad- 
mitted by  Midge,  whose  ruddy  face  wore  a  look  of  blanched 
consternation  at  sight  of  him. 

Mr.  Yal  Blake  walked  home  in  the  moonlight  alone. 
As  he  passed  the  spot  where,  under  the  tree,  the  ghostly- 
white  figure  with  the  hazy  hair  and  deathlike  face  had 
stood,  he  felt  a  cold  thrill  in  spite  of  himself ;  but  the 
spot  was  vacant  now — not  a  soul,  in  the  flesh  or  out  of  it, 
was  to  be  seen  on  Redmon  road.  Mr.  Blake,  as  I  said, 
walked  home  in  the  moonlight  alone,  and  astounded  the 
whole  Blair  family  by  the  unearthly  tidings.  For  good 
Mi's.  Blake's  sake  ho  omitted  that  part  concerning  Laura's 
fainting-fits — merely  saying  she  was  frightened,  and  he 
had  thought  it  best  to  leave  her  at  Redmon.  Mrs.  Blair 
turned  pale.  Master  Bill  grinned,  and  Mr.  Blair  pooh- 
poohed  the  story  incredulously. 

"  A  ghost !  What  nonsense,  Blake !  I  always  thought 
you  a  sensible  man  before  ;  but  if  you  draw  the  long  bow 
like  that,  I  shall  have  to  change  my  opinion." 

"  Yery  well,"  said  Yal,  in  nowise  disturbed  at  having 
his  veracity  doubted,  "  seeing's  believing  I  You  may 
think  what  you  please,  and  so  shall  I !" 

Before  it  took  its  breakfast  next  morning,  Speckport 
had  heard  the  story — the  astounding  stoiy — that  the  ghost 
of  Nathalie  Marsh  had  appeared  to  Mr.  Blake  and  Miss 


VAL'S    DI800VERY.  871 

Blair'  on  Redmon  road,  and  had  frightened  the  young 
lady  nearly  to  death.  Speckport  relished  the  story  amaz- 
ingly— it  was  not! ling  more  than  they  had  expected. 
How  could  that  poor  suicide  he  supposed  to  rest  easy  in 
her  grave !  Mrs.  Marsh,  over  her  eternal  novels,  heard 
it,  and  cried  a  little,  and  wondered  how  Mr.  Blake  could 
say  such  cruel  things  on  purpose  to  woj-ry  her.  Captain 
Cavendish  heard  it,  and  laughed  incredulously  in  Mr. 
Blake's  face. 

"  Why,  Yal,"  he  cried,  "  are  you  going  loony,  or  get- 
ting CTernian,  or  taken  to  eating  cold  pork  before  going 
to  bed?  Cold  pork  might  account  for  it,  but  nothing  else 
could  ever  excuse  you  for  telling  such  a  raw-head-and- 
bloody-bones  story  as  that,  and  expecting  sensible  jjeople 
to  believe  it.  As  to  Laura,  any  gatepost  or  white  birch 
tree  in  the  moonlight  would  pass  for  a  ghost  with 
her." 

Mr.  Blake  was  entirely  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to 
waste  his  time  in  controversy  with  these  imbelievers. 
Ho  knew  well  enough  it  was  no  gatepost  or  white  birch 
he  had  seen,  but  the  subject  was  full  of  myctery  and  per- 
plexity, and  he  was  glad  to  let  it  drop.  It  could  not  be 
Kathalic  March ;  he  liad  seen  her  dead  and  buried ;  and 
ghosts  were  opposed  to  reason  and  common  sense,  and  all 
the  beliefs  of  his  life.  It  was  better  to  let  the  subject 
drop  then ;  so  he  only  whistled  when  people  laughed  at 
him,  or  cross-questioned  him,  and  told  them  if  they  didn't 
believe  him  the  less  they  said  about  it  the  better. 

But  the  strange  story  was  not  so  soon  to  die  out.  Mr. 
Blake,  about  a  fortnight  after,  was  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly confirmed.  Tho  ghost  of  Nathalie  Marsh  had 
been  seen  again — this  time  in  Speckport  Cemetery,  kneel- 
ing beside  her  own  grave ;  and  the  persou  who  saw  it 
had  fled  away,  shrieking  and  falling  in  a  fit  at  the  sexton's 
door.  It  was  the  sexton's  nephew,  a  lad  of  fifteen  or 
thereabouts,  who,  going  at  nightfall  to  close  the  cemeteiy- 
gates,  had  seen  some  one  kneeling  on  one  of  the  graves. 
This  being  nothing  unusual,  the  boy  had  gone  over,  to 
desire  the"  person  to  leave,  when,  to*  his  horror,  it  slowly 
tui-ned  round  its  face — the  face  of  one  buried  there  a 


873  VAL'S    DISCOVEBT. 

twelvemonth  before.  With  an  unearthly  yell,  the  \wy 
turned  tail  and  fled,  and  had  been  raving  delirious  ever 
since.  The  alarmed  sexton  had  gone  out  to  prove  the 
truth  of  the  incoherent  story,  bLt  had  found  the  ceme- 
tery? deserted,  and  no  earthly  or  unearthly  visitant  near 
the  grave  of  the  doomed  girl. 

llere  was  a  staggerer  for  Speekport !  People  began 
to  look  blankly  at  each  other,  and  took  a  sudden  aver- 
sion to  being  out  after  nightfall.  The  "  Snorter "  and 
the  '*'  Bellower  "  and  the  "  Puiier  "  reluctantly  recorded 
this  new  niarvel,  confirming,  as  it  did,  the  iruih  of  Mr. 
Blake's  story  ;  but  opined  some  evil  person  was  playing 
off  a  practical  joke,  and  hinted  to  the  police  to  be  on  the 
look-out,  and  pin  the  ghost  the  firet  opportunity.  It  was 
the  talk  of  the  whole  town — the  boy  was  dangerously  ill, 
and  young  ladies  grew  nervous  and  hysterical,  and  would 
not  stay  a  moment  in  the  dark,  for  untold  gold.  Laura 
Blair  was  woi*st  of  all ;  she  was  hysterical  to  the  last  de- 
gree, and  shrieked  if  a  door  shut  loudly,  and  fell  into 
hysterics  if  they  left  her  alone  an  instant  night  or  day. 
Olive  Wyndham's  dark  face  paled  with  terror  as  she 
listened.  Was  the  dead  and  defrauded  heiress  rising  from 
her  grave  because  her  earthly  wrongs  would  not  let  her 
rest  there  ?     Would  she  appear  to  her  next  ? 

Was  it  superstitious  fear  that  had  taken  all  the  color 
— and  he  never  at  best  had  much  to  spare — out  of  Paul 
Wyndham's  face,  and  left  him  the  ghost  of  his  former 
self.  The  servants  at  Redmon  could  have  told  you  how 
little  he  ate,  and  perhaps  that  accounted  for  his  growing 
as  thin  as  a  shadow.  A  dark  look  of  settled  gloom  over- 
shadowed his  pale  face  always  now.  He  spent  more  of 
his  time  than  ever  at  his  mother's  cottage,  and  when 
asked  what  was  the  matter — was  he  ill  ? — ^he  answered  no, 
but  his  mother  was.  Wliy,  then,  did  he  not  have  medical 
advice,  sympathizers  asked ;  and  Mr.  Wyndham  replied 
that  his  mother  declined — she  was  very  peculiar,  and 
positively  ref  ised.  What  did  he  suppose  was  the  matter 
with  her  ?  and  Mr.  Wyndham  had  told  them  it  was  her 
nervous  system — she  was  hypochondriacal — in  fact ;  and 
he  made  the  admission  very  reluctantly,  and  with  a  pain- 


VAL'S    DISCOVERT.  373 

fill  qnivering  about  the  mouth — she  was  not  quite  her- 

eelf — her  iniad  had  lost  its  balance.  And  the  sympa- 
thizers going  their  way,  informed  other  sympatliizers  that 
all  old  Mrs.  Wyndhain's  oddities  were  accounted  for — the 
woman  was  mad ! 

Speckport  pitied  poor  Mr.  Wyndham,  saddled  with 
an  insane  mother,  very  much,  whon  they  saw  his  pale, 
worn  face,  and  that  gloomy  look  that  never  left  it.  Olivo 
pitied  him,  too ;  and  would  have  given  the  world,  had  it 
been  hers  to  give,  to  comfort  him  in  his  great  trouble  ; 
but  she  was  nothing  to  him,  and  her  heart  turned  to  gall 
and  bitterness,  as  she  thought  of  it.  JS^o,  she  was  nothing 
to  him,  she  scarcely  ever  saw  him  at  all  now,  and  he 
seemed  unconscious  of  her  presence  when  they  were  to- 
gether. But  it  was  a  relief  to  know  the  secret  of  Rose- 
bush Cottage — however  dreadfnl  that  secret  was,  it  were 
better  than  the  lirst  diabolical  thought  suggested  by  Catty 
Clowrie.  Once  Olive  Wyndham,  in  the  humility  born  of 
this  new  love,  had  descended  from  the  heights  of  high  and 
miglitA'dom  on  which  she  dwelt,  and  ate  humble  pie  at 
her  cold  lord's  feet.  She  might  have  left  the  unsavory 
dish  alone — her  humility  was  no  more  to  him  than  her 
p'«de,  and  she  had  been  repulsed.  Not  rudely,  or  un- 
kindU\  Mr.  Wyndham  was  a  gentleman,  every  inch  of 
him,  and  would  not  be  harsh  to  a  woman ;  but  still  she 
was  repulsed,  and  her  proud  heart  quivered  to  its  inmost 
core  v^'ith  the  degradation. 

She  had  found  him,  one  evening  on  entering  the 
library,  sitting  alone  there,  his  forehead  bowed  on  his 
hand,  a  look  that  was  so  like  despair  on  his  face ;  but  she 
forgot  everything  but  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  he  was 
suirering  a  sorrow  too  great  for  words  to  tell.  Ilad  she 
not  a  right  to  love  him,  to  comfort  him — was  she  not  his 
wife  ?  She  would  not  listen  to  her  woman's  nature, 
which  revolted,  and  ordered  her  sternly  back.  She  only 
knew  that  she  loved  him  ;  and  she  went  over  and  touched 
him  lightly  on  the  shoulder.  It  was  the  fii*st  time  they  had 
ever  so  met — therefore  the  look  of  surprise  which  came 
into  his  eyes  when  he  looked  up,  was  natural  enough.  He 


U74  VAL'S    DISCOVERT. 

rose  up,  looking  with  that  quiet  air  of  surprise  on  the 
downcast  eyes  and  flnslied  face,  and  waited  silently. 

''Mr.  Wyndham,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembhng  so, 
liei"  words  were  scarcely  intelligible.  "  I — I  am  sorry 
to  see  yoti  in  such  trouble  ?  Can — can  I  do  anything  to 
alleviate  it  ?" 

"  Thank  you !"  he  said,  "No  !" 

"  If,"  still  tremulously,  "  if  I  could  do  anything  for 
your  mother — visit  her " 

She  broke  down  entirely.  In  Mr.  Wyndham's  face 
there  was  nothing  but  cold  surprise. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said,  "  but  you  can  do 
nothing." 

He  bowed  and  left  the  room.  And  Olive,  humbled, 
repulsed,  morlilied  to  death,  hating,  for  the  moment,  her- 
Bcli  and  hiui  and  all  the  world,  Hung  hei-self  upon  a  sofa, 
and  wept  such  a  scalding  rush  of  tears,  as  only  those  proud, 
sensitive  hearts  can  ev^er  shed.  They  might  have  been 
teal's  of  blood,  so  torn  and  wounded  was  the  poor  heart 
from  whence  tliey  sprang ;  and  whei  they  dried,  and  she 
rose  up,  they  had  left  her  like  a  stone. 

Between  Nathalie  Marsh's  ghost  and  Mr.  "Wyndham's 
mad  mother,  Speckport  was  kept  so  busy  talking,  it  had 
scarcely  time  to  canvas  the  movement,  when  Captain 
George  Cav^endish  announced  his  intention  of  selling  out 
and  going  home.  Mr.  Blake  was  the  only  one,  with  the 
exception  of  some  milk-and-water  young  ladies  who  were 
in  love  with  the  dashing  Englisher,  whom  the  announce- 
ment bothered  ;  and  it  was  not  for  the  captain's  sake, 
but  for  poor  lost  Cherrie's.  Where  was  Cherrie?  Val 
had  vowed  a  vow  to  lind  her  out,  but  this  turn  of  affaii-s 
knocked  all  his  plans  in  the  head. 

'•  If  he  does  go,"  said  Yal  to  himself,  "  I'll  send  him 
oft'  with  a  Ilea  in  his  ear!  1  must  find  Cherrie,  or 
Charley  Marsh  will  be  an  exile  forever  !" 

'•But  how?"  Mr.  Blake  was  at  his  wit's  end  think- 
ing the  matter  over,  and  trying  to  hit  on  some  plan.  He 
was  still  thinking  about  it,  when  he  sallied  off  to  the  post- 
office  for  his  papers  and  letters,  and  encountered  Mr. 
Johnston,  the  captain's  man,  coming  out  with  a  handful 


VAL'S    DISCOVERT.  37o 

of  lettere.  He  was  sorting  them  as  he  walked,  and  never 
noticed  that  he  dropped  one  as  he  passed  Mr.  Bhike. 
Val  picked  it  up  to  return  it,  glancing  carelessly  at  the 
superscription  as  lie  did  so.  II is  glance  was  magical — a 
red  flush  cnmsoned  his  sallow  face,  and  he  turned  it  over 
to  look  at  the  postmark.  Then  he  saw  Mr.  Johnston  had 
missed  it,  and  was  turning  round — he  dropped  it  again, 
and  walked  on,  and  the  captain's  valet  pounced  upon  it 
and  walked  off. 

Blake  strode  straight  to  his  boarding-house,  informed 
Mr.  Blair  sudden  business  required  him  to  go  up  the 
country  for  a  v/eek  or  so,  scrawled  off  a  note  to  his  fore- 
man, tiung  a  few  things  into  a  valise,  and  stai-ted  for  tlie 
cars.     He  was  jUst  in  time  to  take  a  through  ticket  to 

8 ,  before  the  evening  train  started,  and  was  whirled  off 

in  the  amber  haze  of  a  brilliant  September  sunset. 

It   was   past    midnight  when   the   train   reached  the 

terminus,  but  Mr.  Blake  was  not  going  to  stop  at  S . 

The  steamer  which  started  at  eight  next  morning  for 
Charlottetown,  Prince  Edward's  Island,  lay  at  the  wharf, 
and  Mr.  Blake  went  on  board  immediately,  and  turned  in. 
AV^hen  the  boat  started  next  morning,  he  was  strolling 
about  the  deck,  smoking  a  pipe  and  watching  the  pas- 
sengers come  on  board.  There  M'ere  not  many,  and  he 
knew  none  of  them,  which  was  just  what  he  wanted.  It 
was  a  long,  delightful  day  on  the  Gulf ;  and  in  the  yellow 
glory  of  another  sunset,  lilr.  Blake  landed  in  Charlotte- 
town,  and,  valise  in  hand,  sauntered  uj)  to  one  of  the 
principal  hotels. 

Mr.  Blake  took  his  tea,  and  then  set  off  for  a  ramble 
througii  the  town.  A  quiet  town,  with  grass-grown  red- 
clay  streets,  and  only  a  few  stragglers  abroad.  A  beauti- 
ful town,  with  a  few  quiet  shops,  and  a  drowsiness  per- 
vading the  air,  and  a  general  stillness  and  torpor  pervad- 
ing everywhere.  Val  retired  early ;  but  he  arose  early <> 
also,  and  was  out  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket  and  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth,  wandering  about  again,  staring  at  the  Gov- 
ernment House  and  the  Colonial  Buildings,  and  the  fly- 
specked  books  in  the  stationers'  shops,  and  the  deserted 
drygoods'-stores,  and  going  into  the  cathedral  where  morn- 


376  VAL'S    DISCOVERT. 

ing-servico  was  going  on,  and  contemplating  the  pretty 
nuns  of  Notre  Dame  reading  their  missals  with  devoutly 
downcast  eyes,  in  their  pew.  He  was  out  again  the  mo- 
ment he  had  swallowed  his  breakfast  and  made  a  few  in- 
quiries of  ihe  clerk,  traversing  the  town-streets  once  more. 
These  inquiries  of  his  were  concerning  a  lady,  a  young 
kidy,  he  told  the  polite  clerk,  a  friend  of  his  whom  he  was 
most  anxious  to  mid  out,  but  whose  precise  residence  he 
was  ignorant  of.  He  was  pretty  certain  she  was  in  Char- 
lottetown,  but  he  could  not  exactly  tell  where.  Perhaps 
the  clerk  had  seen  her — a  black-eyed  young  lady  with  black 
curls  and  red  cheeks,  and  not  tall '(  No ! — the  clerk  did 
not  remember  ;  he  had  seen  a  good  many  black-eyed  young 
ladies  iu  his  time,  but  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  seen 
tills  particular  one.  Mr.  Blake  pursued  these  inquiries  in 
other  places, -chiefly  in  drygoods'  or  milliners'  stores,  and 
in  one  of  these  latter,  the  lady  in  attendance  informed 
him  that  she  knew  such  a  pei-son,  a  young  lady,  a  Miss 
Smith,  she  believed,  who  used  to  shop  there,  and  generally 
walked  by  every  afternoon. 

Mr.  Blake  never  went  home  to  dinner  that  day.  It 
was  a  hot,  sunsljiny  day,  and  he  lounged  about  the  niilh- 
ner's  shop,  attracting  a  good  deal  of  curiosity,  and  suspicion 
that  he  might  have  designs  on  the  bonnets.  But  Val  did 
not  care  for  their  suspicions ;  he  was  looking  out  for  some 
one  he  felt  sure  would  be  along  presently,  if  she  were  liv- 
ing and  well.  The  watch  was  a  very  long  one,  but  he 
kept  it  patiently,  and  about  three  in  the  afternoon  he  met 
with  his  reward.  There,  swinging  along  the  street,  with 
the  old  jaunty  step  he  remembered  so  well,  was  a  black- 
eyed,  black-ringleted  young  lady,  turban  on  head,  parasol 
in  hand.  Mr.  Blake  bounced  up,  walked  forward,  and 
accosted  her  with  the  simple  remark — sublime  in  its  sim- 
plicity— "How  are  you,  Cherrie2" 


CEERRIE     TELLS     THE    TRUTH,  VH 

CHAPTER  XXXn. 

OHEBRIE  TELLS  THE  TRUTH. 

T  was  a  fortunate  thing,  perliaps,  that  that  quiet, 
grass-growu  Charlotte  Street  was  almost  de- 
serted ;  else  the  scream  and  recoil  with  which 
Clierrie — our  old  and  long-lost- sigh t-of  fi'iend, 
Clicrrie — received  this  salutation,  might  have 
attracted  unpleasant  attention. 

Mr.  Blake  took  the  matter  with  constitutional  phlegm. 

"Oil,  come  now,  Cherrie,  no  hysterics!  How  have 
you  been  all  these  everlasthig  ages?" 

"Mis-tcr  Blake?"  Cherrie  gasped,  her  eyes  starting  in 
her  heod  with  the  surprise.  "  Oh,  my  goodness !  What 
a  turn  you  gave  me !" 

"  Did  I  ?"  said  Val.  "  Then  I'll  give  you  another  ;  for 
I  want  3'ou  to  turn  back  witli  me,  and  take  me  to  wherever 
you  live,  Mi's.  Smith.  That's  the  name  you  go  by  here, 
isn't  it  r 

"  Who  told  you  so?" 

"A  little  bird  !  I  saj,  Cherrie,  you've  lost  your  red 
cheeks !    Doesn't  Prirlce  Edward's  Island  agree  with  you  ?" 

Cherrie  had  lost  her  bright  bloom  of  color;  but  save 
that  slie  was  much  thinner  and  paler,  and  far  less  gaudily 
dressed,  she  was  the  same  Cherrie  of  old. 

"  Agree  with  me !"  exclaimed  Cherrie,  in  rather  a 
loudly-reseutfiil  tone,  considering  that  they  were  on  the 
street.  "I  hate  the  place,  and  I  am  nearly  moped  to 
death  in  it.  I  never  was  so  miserable  in  all  my  life  as  1 
have  been  since  I  came  here !" 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  leave  it  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Blake. 

"Leave  it!"  reiterated  Cherrie,  like  an  angry  echo. 
"  It's  very  easy  to  sny  leave  it ;  but  when  you  have  no 
money  or  nothing,  it's  not  quite  so  easy  doing  it.  I've 
been  used  shamefully ;  and  if  ever  I  get  back  to  Speck- 


378  CHERRIE    TELLS    THE     TRUTH, 

Eort,  I'll  let  some  of  the  folks  there  know  it,  too  1  Did 
e  send  you  ?" 

'•'  Who  ?" 

"  You  know  well  enough!     Captain  Cavendish!" 

"  He  send  me !"  said  Val.  "  I  should  think  not. 
There  isn't  a  soul  in  Speckport  knows  whether  you  are 
ali^'e  or  dead ;  and  he  takes  care  they  shan't,  either.'  I 
have  been  trying  to  find  you  out  ever  since  you  left ;  and 
I  have  asked  Captaiti  Cavendish  scores  of  times,  but  he 
always  vowed  he  knew  nothing  about  you — that  you  had 
run  oif  after  Charley  Marsh.  It  was  only  by  chance  I  saw 
a  letter  from  3-011  to  him  the  other  day,  posted  here,  and  I 
Botrted  off  in  a  trice.  Why  didn't  you  write  to  your  folks, 
Clierrie  ?" 

"  I  daren't.  He  wouldn't  let  me.  He  told  me,  if  I 
didn't  stay  here  and  keep  quiet,  he  never  would  have  any- 
tliiug  more  to  say  to  me.  I  have  been  shamefully  used !" 
— and  here  Cherrie  began  to  cry  on' the  street — "and  I 
wish  I  was  dead.     There !" 

"  Perhaps  you  will  before  long,"  said  Yal,  6ignifi.cantly. 

Cherrie  looked  at  him. 

"What?" 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  be  let  live  long !  You'll  have  to 
stand  your  trial  when  you  go  back,  for  helping  in  the  mur- 
der of  Mrs.  Leroy ;  and  maybe  they'll  hang  you !  ISTow, 
don't  go  screaming  out  and  making  such  an  infernal  row 
on  the  street — will  you  ?" 

Cherrie  did  not  scream.  She  suppressed  a  rising  cry, 
and  turned  ashen  wliite. 

"  I  liad  nothing  to  do  with  the  murder  of  Mi*s.  Leroy," 
she  said,  with  lips  that  trembled.  "  You  know  I  hadn't. 
You  know  I  left  Speckj^ort  the  afternoon  it  happened. 
You  have  no  business  sayino'  such  things  to  me,  Val 
jjjaivC. 

She  hiid  her  hand  on  her  heart  while  she  spoke,  as  if 
to  still  its  clamor.  Val  saw  by  her  white  and  parted  lips 
h.'>\v  tliat  poor,  lluttering,  frightened  heart  was  throbbing. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  know  you  left  Speckport  that  af temoou, 
Cherrie ;  but  you  and  Cavendish  had  it  all  made  up  before- 
hand.    You  were  to  write  Charley  that  note,  and  appoint 


CHERRIE     TELLS     THE     TRUTH.  879 

a  meeting  in  Redmou  grounds,  promising  to  nm  away 
with  him,  and  making  liim  wait  for  you  there,  while  Ca- 
vendish got  in  through  tlie  window,  and  robbed  the  old 
woman,  ^ou  never  intended  meeting  Charley,  you  know ; 
and  you  are  just  as  much  accessory  to  the  murder  as  if 
you  had  stood  by  and  held  the  lamp  while  lie  was  chok- 
ing Lady  Leroy." 

They  had  loft  the  dull  streets  of  the  town,  and  were 
out  in  a  lovely  country  road.  Swelling  meadows  of  golden 
grain  and  scented  hay  spread  away  on  either  hand,  until 
they  melted  into  the  azure  arch ;  and  the  long,  dusty  road 
wound  its  way  under  pleasant,  shadowy  trees,  without  a 
living  creature  to  bo  seen.  Cherrie,  listening  to  these 
terrible  words,  spoken  in  the  same  tone  Mr.  lilake  would 
have  used  had  he  been  informing  her  the  day  w;is  uncom- 
monly tine,  sank  down  on  a  green  hillock  by  the  roadside, 
and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  broke  out  in  a 
passion  of  tempestuous  tears.  lie  had  taken  her  so  by 
surprise — be  had  given  her  no  time  to  prepare — the  sight 
of  him  had  brought  back  the  recollection  of  the  old  pleas- 
ant days,  and  the  wretched  dullness  of  the  present.  She 
w;is  weak,  and  sick,  and  neglected,  and  miserable ;  and 
now  this  last  turn  was  coming  to  crush  her.  Poor  Cherrie 
sat  there  and  cried  the  bitterest  tears  she  had  ever  shed  in 
her  life;  her  whole  frame  sliaking  with  her  convulsive 
sobs.  Her  distress  touched  Val ;  for  pretty  Cherrie  had 
always  been  a  favorite  of  his,  despite  her  glaring  faults 
and  folly ;  and  a  twinge  of  remorse  smote  his  conscience 
at  what  ho  had  done. 

'•  Oh,  now,  Cherrie,  don't  cry !  People  will  be  coming 
along,  and  what  will  they  think?     Come,  get  up,  like  a 

food  girl,  and  we'll  talk  it  over  when  we  get  to  your  house. 
'erhaps  it  may  not  be  so  bad  after  all." 

ClieiTie  looked  U])  at  him  with  piteous  reproach 
tlirough  lier  tears. 

"  Was  it  for  this  you  wanted  to  find  me  out  so  bad, 
Mr.  IMake?  AVas  it  to  make  me  a  prisoner  you  came  over 
here  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Val,  with  another  twinge  of  conscience, 
'*ye-e-es,  it  was  partly.     But  you  must  recollect,  Cherrie, 


3S0  CRERRIE     TELLS     TEE     TRUTH. 

you  have  done  worse.  You  let  Charley  Marsh — poor 
Charley !  wlio  loved  you  a  thousand  times  better  than  that 
scamp  of  an  Englishman — be  sentenced  for  a  deed  he 
never  committed,  when  you  could  have  told  the  truth  and 
freed  him.  Worse  still,  you  helped  to  inveigle  him  into 
as  horrible  a  plot  as  ever  was  concocted." 

'*  I  couldn't  help  it !"  sobbed  Cherrie.  "  I  didn't  want 
to  do  it,  but  he  made  me !  I  wish  I  had  ran  away  with 
Charley  that  night.  He  never  would  have  left  me  like 
this!" 

"  No ;  that  he  wouldn't !  Charley  was  as  true  as  steel, 
poor  fellow !  and  loved  you  as  no  one  ever  will  love  you 
again,  in  this  world  !  He  is  a  soldier  now,  fighting  down 
South ;  and  perhaps  he's  shot  before  this ;  and  if  he  is, 
his  death  lies  at  your  door,  Cherrie." 

Clierrie's  teal's  flowed  faster  than  ever. 

"  As  for  Cavendish,"  went  on  Yal,  "  he's  the  greatest 
villain  unhung!  Not  to  speak  of  his  other  atrocities — 
his  gambling,  his  robbing,  his  murdering,  his  breaking  the 
heart  of  Natlialie  Marsh — he  has  been  the  biggest  rascal 
that  ever  lived,  to  you,  my  poor  Chenie." 

"  Yes.  he  has !"  wept  Cherrie,  all  her  wrongs  bleeding 
afresh.  "  He's  a  villain,  and  I  hate  him.  Oh  dear  me,  I 
wish  I  was  dead !" 

"  You  don't  know  half  the  wrong  he  has  done  you  and 
means  to  do,"  said  Val.  "  Come,  Cherrie,  get  up,  and  I'll 
tell  you  about  it  as  we  go  along.  Do  you  live  far  from 
this  r' 

"No;  it's  the  first  house  you  meet;  the  dullest  old 
place  on  the  face  of  the  earth  !  He  wouldn't  let  me  leave 
it ;  and  I  know  they  despise  me,  and  think  I'm  no  better 
than  1  ought  to  be.  There  never  was  a  girl  in  this  world 
so  ill-used  as  I  have  been !  Why  did  he  marry  me,  if  he 
■  is  ashamed  of  me  ?  Why  can't  he  stay  with  me  as  he 
ought  to  stay  with  his  wife  ?" 

"  His  wife !"  repeated  Val,  staring  at  her  as  they  walked 
along.  "  Whv,  Cherrie,  is  that  all  you  know  about  it  % 
Hasn't  he  tolJ  you  that  you  are  not  his  wife  ?" 

"  Not  his  wife  I"  skrieked  Cherrie.  '"'  Yal  Blake,  what 
do  you  mean  ?" 


CHERRIE     TELLS    TEE     TRUTH.  381 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  cried  Mr.  Blake,  appealing  in  dismay 
to  the  scarecrows  in  the  lields,  "  I  thought  he  had  told  her. 
Why,  you  unfortunate  Oherrie,  don't  you  know  the  mar- 
riage was  a  sham  one  '^" 

Cherrie  gasped  for  breath.  The  surprise  struck  her 
speechless. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  all  about  it !"  said  Val ;  "  Til 
take  my  oath  I  did!  Why,  3'^ou  poor  little  simpleton, 
how  could  you  ever  be  idiot  enough  to  think  a  fellow  like 
Cavendish  would  marry  the  like  of  you!  If  you  had  two 
grains  of  sense  in  your  head,"  said  Mr,  Blake,  politely, 
"yon  must  have  seen  through  it.  Ue  planned  the  whole 
thing  himself — a  sham  from  beginning  to  end  !" 

"It  isn't!  it  can't  be!  I  don't  believe  it!  I  won't 
believe  it !"  panted  Cherrie,  recovering  her  breath.  "  You 
helped  hhu,  and  the  minister  was  there ;  and  I  am  his 
wife,  his  lawful  wedded  wife.  Yon  are  only  trying  to 
frighten  me  to  death." 

"JS'o,  I'm  not,"  said  Val;  "and  you're  no  more  his 
wife  than  I  am.  The  minister  wasn't  a  minister,  but  a 
fellow  who  played  the  part.  If  you  hadn't  been  the  great- 
est goose  that  ever  lived,  Cherrie,  you  couldn't  have  been 
so  taken  in !"' 

Cherrie's  breath  went  and  came,  and  her  tears  seemed 
turned  to  sparks  of  lire,  as  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  her 
I'.ompanion. 

"And  you  helped  him  to  do  this,  Mr.  Blake?" 

"  Well,  Cherrie,  what  could  I  do?  If  I  hadn't  helped 
him,  some  one  else  would ;  and,  anyhow,  you  would  have 
run  away  with  him,  maiTlage  or  no  marriage.  Kow,  don't 
deny  it — you  know  you  would  !" 

"  And  you  mean  to  say  I'm  not  married  to  Captair- 
Cavendish  V 

"  Yes,  I  do.  1  only  wonder  he  hasn't  let  you  iirid  it 
out  long  ago.  lie  came  to  uio  and  persuaded  me  to  help 
him,  telling  me  y*)u  were  ready  to  run  oU  with  him  any 
time  he  asked  you,  which  I  knew  myself.  I'm  sorry  for 
it  now,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Blake,"  said  Cherrie,  whose  cheeks 
were  red,  and  whose  eyes  were  Hashing,  "you  may  both 


383  GUEIiRIE     TELLS     THE     TRITTE. 

be  ])roncl  of  yom*  work.  Yon  are  fine  gentlemen,  both  of 
joii,  to  distress  a  poor  girl  like  me,  as  yon  have  done.  But 
I'll  go  back  to  Speckport,  and  I'll  tell  every  soul  in  it  how 
I  have  been  taken  in ;  and  I  hope  they'll  tar  and  feather 
the  tv/o  of  you  for  wliat  you  have  done." 

"  W"ell,"  said  Mr.  Blake",  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  we  de- 
serve it,  I  dare  say,  but  Cavendish  is  the  woi*st  after  all. 
AVhy,  Cherrie,  my  girl,  you  don't  know  half  the  wrong  he 
has  done  you.  He  would  have  been  married  three  moutlis 
ago,  if  the  lady  had  not  changed  her  mind  and  married 
another  man." 

"  Would  he  ?"  said  Cherrie,  vindictively,  between  her 
closed  teeth.  "  Oh,  if  ever  I  get  a  chance,  won't  I  pay 
him  off !     Who  was  the  lady  ?" 

"  The  new  heiress  of  Redmon — ^Miss  Henderson  she 
was  then,  Mrs.  Wyndham  she  is  now.  He  was  crazy  about 
lier,  as  all  Speckport  can  tell  vou ;  and  he  asked  her  to 
marry  him ;  and  she  consented  first,  and  backed  out  after- 
wPTd.  You  never  saw  any  one  in  the  state  he  was  in, 
Cherrie ;  and  he  started  off  to  Canada,  because  he  couldn't 
bear  to  stay  in  the  place  and  see  her  married  to  another 
man." 

"  But  he's  back,  now,"  said  Cherrie.  "  I  had  a  letter 
from  him  two  weeks  ago,  with  a  couple  of  pounds  in  it. 
He's  the  meanest,  stingiest  miser  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  I  have  to  widte  and  write,  before  I  get  enough  from 
him  to  pay  my  board.  I  haven't  had  a  decent  dress  these 
six  months ;  and  I  can't  leave  the  place,  because  I  never 
have  enough  to  pay  my  way  back.  I'm  the  worst-treated 
and  most  unfortunate  creature  in  the  whole  world !" 

And  here  poor  Cherrie's  teai^  broke  out  afresh. 

"  And  that's  not  the  worst,  either,"  pursued  Mr.  Blake. 
'■  Do  you  know  what  has  brought  him  back  to  Speckport, 
:.  •,  3'ou  say  ?  Of  coui'se,  you  don't — you  are  the  last  he 
would  tell ;  but  it  is  because  he  is  selling  out  of  the  army, 
a:);l  going  back  to  England  for  good.  'He  wants  to  be  rid 
of  you  entirely ;  and  once  he  is  there,  and  mamed  to  some 
one  else  with  a  fortune,  many  a  tine  laugh  he  will  have  at 
you." 

"  Never !"  cried  Cherrie,  wrought  up  to  the  right  pitch 


CEERRTE     TELLS     THE     TRUTH.  888 

of  indignation ;  "  nover  sliiill  lie  leave  Speckport,  if  1  can 
help  it !  I'll  tell  all,  if  I  ^va3  to  hang  for  it  niyself,  sooner 
than  let  him  get  oil  like  that,  the  villain  !" 

"  Bnt  yon  Avon't  hang  for  it,  Cherrie,  if  yon  tell ;  it's 
only  if  yon  refuse  to  tell,  that  you  are  in  danger.  Who- 
ever turns  Queen's  evidence  gets  oil  scot  free,  you  know ; 
and  if  you  only  do  what  is  right,  and  take  my  advice, 
which  means  the  same  thing,  you  may  triumph  over  Cap- 
tain Georgt-,  Percy  Cavendish  yet." 

"  I'll  do  it  V  said  Cherrie,  her  lips  compressed  and  her 
eyes  flashing,  and  the  memory  of  all  her  wrongs  surging 
back  upon  her  at  once.  "  I'll  do  it,  and  be  revenged  on 
the  greatest  scoundrel  that  ever  called  himself  a  gentle- 
man !  But,  mind,  Val  Blake,  I  must  be  sure  that  this  is 
all  true — I  must  be  sure  that  I  am  not  his  wife." 

"  It  will  bo  very  easy  convincing  yon  of  that,  once  you 
are  back  in  Speckpoi-t.  You  shall  hear  it  from  his  own 
lips,  without  his  knowing  you  are  listening.  Oh,  is  this 
the  place  ?" 

For  Cherrie  had  stopped  before  a  little  farmhouse, 
garnished  with  a  potato  garden  in  front,  and  adorned  with 
numerous  pigsties  on  either  hand.  She  led  the  way  to 
the  front  room  of  the  establishment ;  which  was  carpetless, 
and  cui-tainless,  and  unfurnished,  and  impoverished-look- 
ing enough. 

"  Well,"  Val  said,  "  this  is  rather  different,  Cherrie, 
from  the  days  when  you  used  to  dress  in  silks  and  sport 
gold  chains,  and  do  nothing  but  flirt,  and  be  petted  and 
made  love  to  from  week's-end  to  week's-end.  But  never 
mind — the  worst's  over,  now  that  I've  found  you  out,  and 
you'll  have  good  times  yet  in  Speckport." 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,"  sobbed  Cherrie,  "it 
never  would  have  happened.  I  hate  you,  Mr.  Blake  I 
There !" 

"  Now,  Cherrie,  you  know  right  well  you  would  have 
nin  away  with  Captain  Cavendish  that  time,  married  or 
not  inai-ried.  Oh !  you  may  deny  it,  and  perhaps  you 
think  so  now ;  but  I  know  better.  But  he's  the  greatest 
raacal  that  ever  went  unhung,  to  use  you  as  he  has;  and 


884  CHEBIiin     TELLS     THE     TliUTH. 

if  you  had  the  spirit  of  a  turnip,  you  would  be  re- 
venged/' 

"  I  will !"  cried  Cherrie,  clenching  her  little  fist  reso- 
lutely ;  "  I  will !  I'll  let  him  see  I'm  not  the  dirt  under 
his  feet!  I've  stood  it  long  enough!  I'U  stand  it  no 
longer !" 

Mr.  Blake's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  spirited  declaration. 

"  That's  my  brave  Cherrie  !  I  always  knew  you  were 
spunky !  You  shall  hear  from  his  own  lips  the  avowal  of 
his  false  marriage,  and  then  you  will  go  before  a  magis- 
trate and  swear  to  all  3^ou  know  about  that  night  of  the 
robbery  and  murder.  There  is  a  steamer  to  leave  Char- 
lottetown  to-morrow,  at  nine.  Will  you  be  ready  if  I 
drive  up  here  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"   said  Cherrie ;   "  I  haven't  so  much  to  pack, 

foodness  knows !  and  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  this  place. 
Low's  all  our  folks  ?     It's  time  to  ask." 

"  They  are  all  well,  and  will  be  very  glad  to  get  pretty 
Cherrie  back  again.  Speckport's  been  a  dull  place  since 
you  left  it.  Cheer  up,  Cherrie  !  There's  bright  days  in 
store  for  you  yet." 

Cherrie  did  not  reply,  and  she  did  not  look  very  hope- 
ful. She  was  crying  quietly ;  and  Val's  heart  was  touched 
as  he  looked  at  the  pale,  tear-stained  face,  and  thought 
how  bright  and  pretty  and  rosy  and  smiling  it  used  to  be. 
He  bent  over  her,  and — well,  I  shouldn't  like  Miss  Blair 
to  know  it — but  Mr.  Blake  deliberately  kissed  her ! 

"Keep  up  a  good  heart,  little  Clien-ie;  jt  will  be  all 
right  yet,  and  we'll  fix  the  flint  of  Captain  (j.  P.  Caven- 
dish. I'll  drive  up  here  for  you  at  eight  to-morrow.  Be 
all  ready.     Good-bve." 

Cherrie  was  all  ready  and  waiting  at  the  gate,  next 
morning,  when  Mr.  Blake  drove  up  through  the  slanting 
morning  sunlight,  dressed  in  her  best.  She  was  in  con- 
siderably better  spirits  than  on  the  previous  day,  and  much 
more  like  the  Cherrie  of  other  days,  glad  to  get  home  and 
eager  for  the  journey.  The  lad}"^  passengers,  dui'ing  the 
day,  asked  her  if  "  the  tall  gentleman  "  was  her  husband. 
That  gentleman  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  her ;  of  poor  !Na- 
thalic's  deatli,  and  Charley's  flight ;   of  the  new  heiress, 


GHERRIE    TELLS    THE    TBUTH.\  885 

who  had  turned  so  many  heads,  and  had  given  the  worst 
turn  of  all  to  Captain  Cavendish  ;  of  that  gentleman's  de- 
spair when  shn  married  Mr.  Wyudham ;  of  the  changes 
and  gay  doings  at  Redinon ;  and  lastly,  of  Nathalie's  ghost. 
This  last  rather  scared  Cherrie.  What  if  Nathalie  should 
appear  to  her — to  her,  who  had  wronged  her  so  deeply 
through  her  brother. 

'•  Oh,  no  !"  said  Mr.  Blake,  to  whom  she  imparted  her 
feai-s  ;  "  I  don't  tliink  she  will,  if  you  tell  the  truth  ;  or, 
at  all  events,  she  will  be  a  most  unreasonable  ghost  if  she 
does.  You  tell  all,  Cherrie,  and  Charley  will  come  back 
to  Speckport ;  and  by  that  time  you'll  have  got  your  red 
cheeks  back  again,  and  who  knows  what  may  happen?" 

Mr.  Blake  whistled  as  he  threw  out  this  artful  insinua 
tion ;  but  Cherrie  caught  at  it  eagerly,  and  her  face  lit  up. 
Charley's  handsome  visage  rose  before  her — blue-eyed, 
fair-liaired  Charley — who  had  always  loved  her,  and  never 
would  have  treated  her  as  Captain  Cavendish  had  done. 
Who  knew  what  misjht  happen !     Who,  indeed ! 

"  I'll  tell  the  whole  truth,"  said  Cherrio,  aloud.  "  I'll 
tell  everything,  Mr.  Blake,  when  I'm  once  sure  I'm  not 
Captain  Cavendish's  real  wife.  I  know  I  did  wrong  to 
treat  poor  Charley  as  I  did  ;  but  I  will  do  all  I  can  now 
to  make  up  for  it." 

They  reached  S at  dark,  and  remained  there  all 

night  and  the  following  morning.  They  might  have  gone 
doM'u  to  Speckport  in  the  eight  p.m.  train ;  but  Val  pre- 
ferred to  remain  for  the  two  a.m.,  for  reasons  of  liis  o^v^l. 

"  If  we  land  in  Speckport  at  noon,  Cherrie,"  he  said, 
'•we  may  be  seen  and  recognized.  We  will  go  down  in 
the  afternoon  and  get  there  about  nine,  when  it  will  be 
dark,  and  you  can  pass  unnoticed.  I  don't  want  Captain 
Cavendish  to  find  out  you  are  there,  until  I  am  ready.",. 

So  Cherrie,  tliickly  vailed,  took  her  place  in  the  car, 
after  dinner  ;  and  was  whirled  through  the  pleasant  coun- 
try, with  its  iields  and  forests  and  villages,  toward  good 
old  Speckport — that  dull,  foggy  town  that  her  heart  had 
grown  sick  with  longing  many  a  time  to  see. 

There  wore  no  lamps  lit  in  tlie  streets  cf  Speckport 
that  liight.     When  the  waning  September  moon  shone 
17 


386  OHERRIE    TELLS    TEE    TRUTH. 

ont  in  sncli  brilltance,  surronnded  by  such  a  crowd  of  stars 
.13  persuaded  one  to  believe  all  the  constellations  were 
flaming  at  once,  gas  became  superfluous,  and  tlie  city 
fathers  spared  it.  Tlie  vailed  lady  was  lianded  out  by 
Mr.  IMake ;  a  proceeding  which  considerably  excited  the 
curicsity  of  some  of  Mr.  Blake's  friends,  loafing  around 
the  platform. 

"  Blake  can't  have  got  married  up  the  conntry,  can 
he  V  drawled  out  Lieutenant  tlie  Honorable  L.  H.  Blank 
to  young  McGregor.     "  Who's  the  woman  2" 

"  Blessed  if  I  know,"  replied  Alick. 

Yal  hurried  his  charge  into  a  cab,  sprang  in  after  her, 
and  gave  the  order,  "  Wasson's  Hotel." 

"  It's  a  new  place,  and  not  much  patronized,"  he  ex- 
plained to  Cherrie.  "  You  won't  be  recognized  there ; 
and  I'll  tell  them  to  fetch  yon  your  meals  up  to  your 
room.  And  to-morrow,  Cherrie,  I  want  you  to  come 
round  to  my  otiice  at  about  eleven.  Come  in  the  back 
way  off  Brunswick  street,  you  know  ;  so  you  won't  have; 
to  pass  through  the  outer  office,  and  be  recognized  by 
Clowrie  and  Gilcase,  and  the  rest  of  'em.  I'll  be  waiting 
for  you  ;  and  if  Cavendish  doesn't  drop  in,  which  he  does 
to  kill  time  about  that  hour  every  day,  I'll  send  for  him, 
and  you'U  hear  his  confession  without  bein^  seen." 

Mr.  Blake  walked  home  that  night,  chuckling  inwardly 
all  the  way. 

"  I  said  I  would  pay  you  oil.  Cavendish,"  he  solilo- 
quized, "  for  leading  Cliarley  Marsh  astray,  and  cutting 
up  those  other  little  cantrips  of  yours ;  and  I  think  the 
time  has  come  at  last — I  really  think,  my  dear  boy,  the 
time  has  come !" 

It  \\as  some  time  after  ten  when  Mr.  Blake  presented 

Jiijnsolf  at  Mr.  Blair's,  and  found  the  family  about  retir- 

;  \f  for  the  night.     Laura  was  not  at  home,  she  was  up  at 

iioihi  ion —Laura's    mamma    said — stopping    with     Mi-s. 

W'yndham,  who  seemed  to  be  very  unhappy. 

"  What  was  she  unhappy  about  ?"  Mr.  Blake  inquired. 
But  Mrs.  Blair  only  sighed,  and  shook  her  head,  and 
hinted  darkly  about  hasty  marriages. 

"  Eh  ?"  said  Yal,  "  Wyndham  doesn't  thrash  her,  does 


CEEniilE     TELLS     THE     TRUTE.  387 

lie  ?  She's  big  and  buxom,  and  he's  only  a  little  fellow ; 
and  I  think,  on  the  whole,  she  would  be  a  match  for  him 
in  a  free  tight !" 

Mr.  Blair  lauglied,  but  Mrs.  Blair  looked  displeased. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Blake,  how  can  you  say  such  things  ? 
Mr.  and  Mi's.  Wyudham  are  not  a  happy  couple,  that  is 
clear  ;  but  whose  is  the  fault  I  cannot  undertake  to  say. 
lie  is  greatly  changed  of  late.  I  suppose  he  worries 
about  his  mother." 

"  Oh,  his  mother !  Has  anybody  seen  that  most  mys- 
terious lady  yet  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  am  aware  of  I  He  bas  not  even  called  in 
medical  advice." 

"  And  the  ghost,"  said  Val,  lighting  his  bedroom-lamp, 
"  has  it  been  figurantin^  since  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Blair;  "the  ghost  hasn't  showed  since 
you  left.  I  say,  Blake,  did  you  settle  your  country-busi- 
ness satisfactorily?" 

"  Very  1"  replied  Mr.  Blake,  with  emphasis.  "  I  never 
settled  any  business  more  to  my  satisfaction  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  !" 

Mr.  Blake  was  in  his  office  bright  and  early  next 
morning,  hard  at  work.  At  about  eleven  he  descendecl 
the  stairs,  and  opened  the  back  door,  which  fronted  on  a 
dull  little  street,  through  which  a  closely-vailed  female 
ligure  was  daintily  picking  her  way.  Yal  admitted  the 
lady,  and  ran  before  lier  up-stairs. 

"  Up  to  time,  Cherrie,  there's  nothing  like  it  I  I  sent 
Bill  Blair  round  to  Cavendish's  rooms  to  tell  him  to  look 
in  before  twelve,  and  I  expect  them  back  every  moment. 
By  Jove!  there's  his  voice  outside  now.  Get  in  here 
quick,  and  sit  down  I  There's  a  crack  in  the  partition, 
tbrough  which  you  can  see  and  hear.  Not  a  chirp  out  of 
you,  now.     Come  in  !" 

Mr.  Blake  raised  his  voice ;  and  in  answer,  the  door 
opened,  and  Captain  Cavendish,  smokin^  a  cigar,  lounged 
in.  Val  gave  one  glance  at  the  buttonea  door  of  the  little 
closet  in  which  he  had  hidden  Cherrie,  and  nodded  famil- 
iarly to  his  visitor. 

"  G-ood-raoming,   captain !   find   a  chair.     Oh,   pitch 


388  CnERRIE     TELLS     THE     TRUTH. 

the  books  on  tlie  floor — they're  of  no  account.  I'm  to 
notice  them  all  favorably  in  the  'Spouter' — the  author 
sent  a  five-dollar  bill  for  me  to  do  it !" 

"  Young  Blair  said  you  wanted  to  see  me,"  remarked 
the  captain,  tilting  back  his  chair,  and  looking  inquiringly 
through  his  cigar-smoke. 

"  W  hy,  so  I  did.  I  heard  before  I  went  up  the  coun- 
try a  rumor  that  you  were  going  to  leave  us — going  to 
leave  the  army,  in  fact,  and  return  to  England.   Is  it  so  ?" 

"  Yes.  I'm  confoundedly  tired  of  Speckport,  and 
this  from-hand-to-mouth  life.  It  is  time  I  retired  on  my 
fortune,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it." 

"How?" 

"  WeU,  I  mean  to  return  home — run  down  to  Cumber- 
land, and  saddle  myself  on  my  old  uncle.  He  was  always 
fond  of  me  as  a  boy,  and  I  know  is  yet,  in  spite  of  his 
new  wife  and  heir.  Perhaps  I  may  drop  into  a  good 
thing  there — heiresses  are  plenty." 

"  I  should  think  you  had  got  your  heart-scald  of  that," 
said  Yal,  grinning.  "  You  bait  your  hook  for  heiresses 
often  enough,  but  the  gold-fish  don't  seem  to  bite." 

Captain  Cavendish  colored  and  frowned. 

"  All  heiresses  are  not  Miss  Hendersons,"  he  said, 
with  a  cold  sneer.  "  I  might  know  what  to  look  for  from 
your  Bluenose  and  Quaker  tradesmen's  daughters.  I  shall 
marry  an  English  lady — one  whose  father  did  not  make 
his  money  selling  butter  or  hawking  fisli." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Cavendish !  You  have  been  in  love 
in  SiJcckport,     i)on't  deny  it !" 

"  I  do  deny  it,"  said  the  captain,  coldly. 

"  Nonsense !     You  were  in  love  with  Nathalie  Marsh." 

"  Never !  Azure-eyed  and  fair-jiaired  wax  dolls  never 
were  any  more  to  my  taste  than  boiled  chicken !  I  never 
cared  a  jot  for  Nathahe  Marsh." 

"  Well,  you  did  for  Olive  Henderson — ^you  can't  deny 
that !  She  is  not  of  the  boiled  chicken  order,  and  all 
Speckport  knows  you  were  mad  about  her." 

"  Speckport  knows  more  than  its  prayers.  I  did  ad- 
mire Miss  JJendereon — I  don't  deny  it;  but  she  had  tho 
Icmixjr  of  the  old  devil,  and  I  am  glad  I  escaped  herl" 


CHERRIE    TELL8     TEE    TRUTH.  889 

"  And  Cherrie — have  you  quite  forgotten  Cberrie  ? 
You  were  spooney  enough  about  her." 

"  Bah !"  said  Cuptaiu  Cavendish,  with  infinite  con- 
tempt ;  ''  don't  sicken  nie  by  talking  of  Cherrie !  I  had 
almost  forgotten  there  ever  was  such  a  little  fool  in  exist- 
ence !'' 

"  And  y )u  never  cared  for  Cherrie,  either?" 

Captain  Cavendish  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  You  know  how  I  cared  for  her.  The  woman  a  man 
can  marry  is  another  thing  altogether  !" 

''  Some  far  higher  up  in  tlie  world  than  Captain  Cav- 
endish have  stooped  to  fall  in  love  and  marry  girls  aa 
poor  as  Clierrie.     You  never  could,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Never  !     The  idea  is  absurd  !     I  wouldn't  marry  a 

firl  like  Cherrie  if  she  had  the  beauty  of  the  Venus  de 
ledicis!" 

''  Did  you  ever  undeceive  Cherrie  about  that  maniage 
affair  ?     Did  you  let  her  know  she  was  not  your  wife  ?" 

'•  Nut  ] ,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  coolly.  "  I  never 
took  so  nmcli  trouble  about  her !  I  was  heartily  sick  of 
her  before  a  week  !" 

"  Well,  it  seems  hard,"  said  Yal.  "Poor  little  thing !" 
She  was  very  fond  of  you,  too." 

'* Stuff!  She  was  jis  fond  of  me  as  she  was,  or  would 
be,  of  any  other  decently  good-looking  man.  She  was 
ready  to  run  off  with  any  one  who  asked  her,  whether  it 
were  I,  or  young  Mai-sh,  or  any  of  the  rest.  I  know  what 
Cherrie  was  made  of."  ' 

"And  so  she  thinks  she  is  still  your  wife?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  thinks  !"  exclaimed  the  young 
officer,  impatiently;  "and  what's  more,  I  don't  care! 
What  do  you  talk  to  me  of  Cherrie  Nettloby  for  ?  I  tell 
y3n  I  know  nothing  about  her  !" 

"  And  I  tell  you  I  dr>n't  believe  it,"  said  Yal.  "  You 
have  her  hid  away  somewhere,  Cavendish;  and  if  you  are 
an  honorable  man,  you  will  tell  her  the  truth,  and  provide 
for  her  before  you  leave  Speckport." 

Captain  Cavendish  might  have  flown  iato  a  rage  with 
any  other  man,  but  he  only  burst  into  a  loud  laugh  at 
Yal. 


890  CHERRIE    TELLS    THE    TRUTH. 

"  Tell  her  the  truth  and  provide  for  her  1  Why,  you 
blessed  innocent,  do  yon  suppose  Cherrie,  wherever  she 
is,  has  been  constant  to  me  all  this  time  ?  I  tell  you  I 
know  nothing  of  her,  and  care  nothing!  Make  your 
mind  easy,  old  fellow!  the  girl  is  off  with  somebody  else 
long  before  this  !     What's  that  1" 

Captain  Cavendish  looked  toward  the  buttoned  door 
of  the  closet.  There  had  been  a  sti'ange  sound,  between 
a  gasp  and  a  cry,  but  Mr.  Blake  took  no  notice. 

"It's  only  the  rats!  So  you  will  leave  Speckport, 
and  do  nothing  for  Clierrie  ?  Cavendish,  I  am  sorry  I 
ever  had  a  hand  in  that  night's  work!" 

"  Too  late  now,  my  dear  boy  !"  laughed  the  English- 
man. "  Make  your  mind  easy  about  Cherrie  !  She's  just 
the  girl  can  take  care  of  herself !  If  ever  she  comes  back 
to  Speckport,  give  her  my  regards  !" 

lie  pulled  out  his  watch,  still  laughing,  and  arose  to 
go. 

"  Half-past  eleven — I  have  an  engagement  at  twelve, 
and  must  be  off.  By-by,  Blake!  don't  fret  about 
Cherrie !" 

Mr.  Blake  did  not  reply,  and  his  face  was  very  grave 
as  he  shut  and  locked  the  door  after  his  visitor. 

"You're  a  greater  villain.  Captain  Cavendish,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  than  even  I  took  you  to  be !  Come  out, 
Cherrie — have  you  heard  enough  ?" 

Yes,  she  had  heard  enough  !  She  was  crouching  on 
the  door,  her  hands  clenched,  her  eyes  flashing.  She 
leajjed  up  like  a  little  tigress  as  he  opened  the  door. 

"  Take  me  to  a  magistrate !"  she  (jried.  "  Let  me  tell 
all  I  know !     I'll  hang  him  !  I'll  hang  him,  if  I  can  !" 

"  Sit  down,  Cherrie,"  said  Val,  "  and  compose  your- 
self. It  won't  do  to  go  in  such  a  gale  as  this  before  the 
authorities.  Tell  me  first.  By  that  time  you  will  bo 
settled !" 

An  hour  afterward,  Mr.  Blake  left  his  office  by  the 
back-door,  accompanied  by  the  vailed  lady.  Cherrie  had 
toldalL 


OVERTAKEN.  891 

CHAPTER  XXXin. 

OVERTAKEN. 

Pp5^^  R.  BLAKE  had  made  little  notes  of  Cheme'e 
!%^j(»-  discourse,  and  had  the  whole  story  arranged 
f't/T^^  in  straightforward  and  business-like  shape,  for 
|j&l:^;A|  the  proper  authorities.  He  did  not  lead  his 
fair  companion  straight  to  those  authorities, 
as  she  vindictively  desired,  but  back  to  her  hotel. 

"I  think  I'll  hand  over  the  case  to  Darcy,  Cherrie," 
he  said  ;  "  and  he  is  out  of  town,  and  won't  be  back  till 
to  morrow  afternoon.  Tliere's  no  hurry — Cavendish 
won't  leave  Speckport  yet  awhile.  We'll  wait  until  to- 
morrow, Cheme. 

CJiorrie  had  to  obey  orders;  and  passed  the  time 
watching  the  passers-by  under  her  window.  There  were 
plenty  of  passers-by,  for  the  window  fronted  on  Queen 
Street,  and  Ciierric  knew  almost  cveiy  one.  It  was 
liard  sometimes  to  hide  behind  the  <;urtain  instead  of 
tin-owing  open  the  casement  and  liailing  those  old  friends 
who  brought  back  so  vividly  the  happy  days  when  she 
had  been  the  little  black-eyed  belle,  and  Captain  Caven- 
dish was  unknown.  It  seemed  only  like  yesterday  since 
slie  had  tripped  down  that  sunlit  street,  in  glittering  silk, 
with  ail  tlie  men  bowing,  and  smiling,  and  tipping  their 
hats  jocosely  to  her  ;  o\\\y  yesterday  since  the  good-look- 
ing yoimg  drygoods  clerks  vaulted  airily  over  the  counters 
to  clo  her  bidding.  And  now,  and  now !  She  never 
( onkl  be  what  she  had  been  again.  And  to  this  man, 
this  false  and  treacherous  Englishman,  for  whom  she  had 
sacriticed  noble-hearted  Charley  Marsh,  she  owed  it  all. 
She  set  her  teeth  vir  dictively,  and  clenched  her  little  tist 
at  t!ic  tliought. 

'*  E.it  I'll  pay  him  for  it !  I'll  teach  him  to  desi)iso 
nie!  I  only  ho])c  thoy  may  hang  him — the  villain! 
Hard  labor  for  life  would  not  be  half  ];:inishment  enough 
for  him  !" 


893  OVERTAKEN. 

Tliey  talk  of  presentiments !  Surely,  there  nevei-'was 
such  a  thing,  else  why  had  George  Cavendish  no  dim 
foreshadowing  of  the  doom  darkening  so  rapidly  ai-onnd 
him.  He  had  told  Yal  Blake  he  had  an  engagemeni;. 
So  he  had  ;  it  was  in  Piince  Street,  with  Mr.  Tom  Oalvs, 
who  had  returned  to  Speckport,  and  who  was  goin^a:  the 
road  to  ruin  faster  than  any  victim  Captain  Cavendish 
had  ever  in  hand  before.  It  was  growing  dusk  when 
they  left  the  gambling-hell;  and  Mr.  Oaks  was  poorer 
and  Captain  Cavendish  richer  by  several  hundred  pounds 
than  when  they  entered.  The  gorgeous  coloiing  of  the 
sunset  yet  flared  in  the  sky,  though  the  crimson  and 
amber  were  flecked  with  sinister  black.  Captain  Caven- 
dish drew  out  a  gold  hunting-watch,  and  looked  at  the 
hour.  "  Past  six,"  he  said,  carelessly  ;  "  I  shall  be  late  at 
Redmon,  I  fear.  The  hour  is  seven,  I  beHeve.  Do  you 
di'ive  there  this  evening  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Oaks,  with  a  black  scowl,  "  I  hope 
my  legs  will  be  palsied  if  ever  they  cross  the  threshold  of 
that  woman  !  I'm  not  a  hound,  to  fawn  on  people  who 
kick  me !" 

Captain  Cavendish  only  smiled — he  rarely  lost  his 
temper — and  went  off  to  his  hotel,  whistling  an  opera 
air.  He  passed  under  Cherrie's  window ;  but  no  pre- 
science of  the  flashing  black  eyes  above  troubled  the 
serenity  of  his  mind.  He  was  walking  steadily  to  his 
fate,  as  we  all  walk — blindly,  unconsciously. 

Captain  Cavendish  was  the  last  to  amve  at  Redmon 
— all  the  other  guests  were  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
room  when  he  entered,  and  they  had  been  discussing  him 
and  his  departure  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  dinner  party  at  Redmon  was  a  very  pleasant  one  ; 
and  every  one,  except,  perhaps,  the  stately  hostess  her- 
self, was  very  gay  and  animated.  Mr,  Wyndham,  de- 
spite the  trouble  he  was  in  about  his  poor  mad  mother, 
was  the  most  entertaining  and  agreeable  of  hosts.  The 
ladies,  when  they  flocked  back  to  the  drawhig-rooni,  enthu- 
siastically pronounced  Mr.  Wyndham  "  a  perfect  love !" 
and  declared  they  quite  envied  Mrs.  "Wyndham  a  husband 
who  could  t^ll  such  charming  stories,  and  who  was  so  de 


OVERTAKEN.  893 

lightfnlly  clever  and  talented.  And  Olive  "Wyndham 
smiled,  and  sat  down  at  the  piano  to  do  her  share  of  the 
entertaining,  with  that  dreary  pain  at  her  beating  and  re- 
bellious heart  that  never  seemed  to  leave  it  now.  Yes,  it 
was  a  very  pleasant  evening ;  and  Captain  Cavendisli 
found  it  so,  and  lingered  strangely,  talking  to  his  hostess 
iifrer  all  the  rest  had  gone.  Lieutenant  the  Honorable  L. 
[\.  Jilank,  who  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  graveled  drive 
outside,  grew  savage  as  he  pulled  out  his  watch  and  saw 
it  vrauted  only  a  cjuarter  of  twelve. 

"  Confound  the  fellow  1"  he  muttered,  "  docs  he  mean 
to  stay  all  night  talking  to  Mrs.  "Wyndham,  and  I  am 
sleepy.  Oh,  here  he  is  at  last !  I  say,  Cavendish,  what 
the  dickens  kept  you  ?" 

Captain  Cavendish  laughed,  as  he  vaulted  into  his 
saddle. 

"  What's  your  hurry,  my  dear  fellow  ?  I  was  talking 
to  Mi-s.  Wyndham,  and  common  politeness  forbade  my 
cutting  the  convei-sation  short." 

"  Common  bosh  !  Mrs.  Wyndham  was  yawning  in 
your  face,  I  dare  say  !  My  belief  is,  Cavendish,  you  are 
as  much  in  love  with  that  black-eyed  goddess  now  as 
ever." 

"Pooh!  it  was  only  a  flirtation  all  through;  and  I 
would  as  soon  flirt  with  a  married  lady  any  day  as  a 
single  one.  She  looked  superb  to-night,  did  not  she,  in 
that  dress  that  flashed  as  she  walked — was  it  pink  or 
white — and  that  ivy  crown  on  her  head  ?" 

"  She  always  looks  superb !  I  should  like  to  fetch 
such  a  wife  as  that  back  to  old  England.  A  coronet 
would  sit  well  on  that  stately  head." 

A  strangely-bitter  regret  for  wliat  he  had  lost  smote 
the  heart  of  Captain  Cavendish.  It  might  have  been, 
lie  might  have  brought  that  black-eyed  divinity  as  his 
wife  to  England,  but  for  Paul  Wyndham.  Why  had 
she  preferred  that  man  to  him  ? 

"  I  wonder  if  she  loves  him  ?"  he  said  aloud. 

"Who? — her  husband?  Do  you  know.  Cavendish, 
she  puzzles  me  there.  She  treats  him  with  fearfully 
frigid  politeness,  but  she  never  ceases  to  watch  him.  U 
17* 


894  OVERTAKEN. 

he  were  any  kind  of  man  but  the  kind  be  is,  I  sbonld  say 
slie  was  jealons  of  him.  He  is  a  capital  fellow,  anyhow, 
and  I  like  him  immensely." 

They  rode  through  the  iron  gates  as  he  spoke,  which 
clanged  noisily  behind  them.  The  night  was  not  very 
bright,  for  the  moon  struggled  through  ragged  piles  of 
black  cloud,  and  only  glimmered  with  a  wan  and  pallid 
light  on  the  earth.  The  trees  loomed  up  black  against 
the  clear  sky,  and  cast  vivid  and  unearthly  shadows  across 
the  dnsty  road.  A  sighing  wind  moaned  fitfully  through 
the  wood,  and  the  trees  surged  and  groaned,  and  rocked 
to  and  fro  restlessly.  It  was  a  spectral  night  enough,  and 
the  young  lieutenant  shivered  in  the  fitful  blast. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  taken  a  shower-bath  of  ice-water," 
he  said.     "  Wasn't  it  somewhere  near  here  that  Val  Blake  ■ 
saw  the  ghost  ?     Good  Heavens  !     What's  that  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  there  suddenly  came  forth  from  the 
shadow  of  the  tree,  as  yH  it  took  shape  from  the  blaclaiess, 
a  figure — a  woman's  figure,  with  long  disordered  fair 
hair,  and  a  face  white  as  snow.  Captain  Cavendish  gave 
an\wf  ul  cry  as  he  saw  it ;  the  cry  startled  his  horse — 
only  a  half-tamed  thing  at  best—  and,  with  a  loud  neigh, 
it  started  off  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  The  horse  of 
Lieutenant  Blank,  either  taking  this  as  a  challenge,  or 
frightened  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  woman, 
pricked  up  its  ears  and  tied  after,  with  a  velocity  that 
nearly  unseated  his  rider.  The  lieutenant  overtook  liis 
companion  as  they  clattered  through  the  street^s  of  the 
town,  and  the  face  of  Captain  Cavendish  was  livid. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Cavendish!"  cried  the  young 
man,  "  what  was  that?     What  was  that  we  saw?" 

"  It  was  Nathahe  Mai*sh !"  Captain  Cavendish  said, 
in  an  awful  voice.  "  Don't  speak  to  me,  Blank !  I  am 
goin^^  mad  !" 

lie  looked  as  if  he  was,  as  he  galloped  furiously  out 
of  sight,  waking  the  sleeping  townsfolk  with  the  thunder 
of  his  horee's  hoofs.  He  had  heard  the  story  of  the 
?host,  and  had  laughed  at  it,  with  the  rest ;  but  he  had 
heard  it  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  most  timid  of  us  can 
laugh  at  ghost-stories  then.     He  had  not  been  thinking 


OVERTAKEN.  895 

of  her,  and  he  had  seen  her — ^he  had  seen  her  at  midnight 
— ^true  ghostly  hour — on  the  lonesome  Kedmon  road, 
with  her  death-white  face  and  streaming  hair !  He  had 
seen  her — he  had  seen  the  ghost  of  Nathalie  Marsh ! 

Mr.  Johnston,  the  sleepy  valet,  sitting  up  for  his  mas- 
ter, recoiled  in  terror  as  that  master  crested  the  threshold 
of  the  room.  Captain  Cavendish  only  stared  vaguely  as 
the  man  spoke  to  him,  and  strode  by  him  and  into  his 
room,  with  an  unearthly  glare  in  his  eyes  and  the  horrible 
livid  ness  of  death  in  his  face.  Mr.  Johnston  stood  appalled 
outside  the  door,  wondering  if  his  master  had  committed 
a  nuirder  on  the  way  home — nothing  less  could  excuse  his 
looking  like  that.  Once,  half  an  hour  after,  Captain  Cav- 
endish opened  his  door,  still  "looldng  like  that,"  and 
ordered  brandy,  in  a  voice  that  did  not  sound  like  his  own ; 
and  Mr.  Johnston  brought  it,  and  got  the  door  slammed 
in  his  face  afterward. 

The  usually  peaceful  slmnbei*s  of  Mr.  Johnston  were 
very  much  disturbed  that  night  by  this  extraordinary  con- 
duct on  the  part  of  his  master.  He  lost  at  least  three 
houi-s'  sleep  perplexing  himself  about  it,  for  never  since  ho 
had  had  the  honor  of  being  the  captain's  man,  had  that 
gentleman  behaved  so  singularly,  or  exhibited  so  ghastly 
and  deathlike  a  face.  When,  in  the  early  watches  of  the 
morning,  he  presented  himself  at  liis  master's  door  with 
towels  and  water,  it  was  in  a  state  of  mingled  curiosity 
and  terror ;  but  he  found  there  was  no  call  for  the  latter 
emotion.  Beyond  looking  uncommonly  pale  and  hollow- 
eyed  (sure  tokens  of  a  sleepless  night),  Captain  Cavendish 
was  perfectly  himself  again;  and  whether  this  was  owing 
to  the  brandy  he  had  drank  or  the  exhilarating  effect  of 
tho  morning  sunshine,  Mr.  Johnston  could  not  tell,  but  he 
was  inclined  to  set  it  down  to  the  brandy.  Even  the  pale- 
ness and  hollow-eyedness  was  not  noticeable  after  he  had 
shaved  and  dressed,  and  partaken  of  IiIb  breakfast,  and 
sauntered  out,  swinging  his  cane  and  smoking  his  cigar, 
to  kill  thought  in  the  bustling  streets  of  the  town.  V al 
Blake,  standing  in  his  office-door,  hailed  him  as  he 
passed. 

"How    are    you,   Cavendish?     Heavenly    morning, 


396  OVERTAKEN. 

isn't  it?    Have  you  any  particular  engagement  for  this 

aftoi-noon  ?" 

"This  afternoon ?     What  hour V\ 

"  Oil,  about  three.  You  must  postpone  your  engage- 
ments to  accommodate  me." 

"  I  have  none  so  early.  I  dine  with  the  mess  at  six. 
What  is  it  ?"' 

"  A  little  surprise  that  1  have  in  store  for  you.  Drop 
into  Darcy's  office  about  five,  and  we'U  give  you  a  little 
surprise !" 

"  A  little  surprise !     Of  what  nature,  pray  ?" 

"  Honor  bright !"  said  Yal,  turning  to  run  up-stairs. 
"  I  won't  tell.     Will  you  come  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly !  It  will  kiU  time  as  well  as  anything 
else." 

He  sauntered  on  imsuspiciously,  never  dreaming  ho 
was  sealing  his  own  fate.  Yal  Blake  had  no  compunctions 
about  entrapping  him.  He  was  so  artful  a  villain  he  must 
be  taken  by  siu'prise,  or  he  might  baftie  them  yet. 

"  So  slippery  an  eel,"  argued  Mr.  Blake  to  liimself, 
"  must  not  be  handled  with  gloves.  He  may  as  well  walk 
into  Darcy's  office  himself,  as  be  brought  there  by  a  couple 
of  police-officers." 

Captain  Cavendish  returned  to  his  hotel  early,  and 
avoided  all  places  where  he  was  likely  to  meet  Lieutenant 
Blank.  Of  all  peopte,  he  wanted  to  shun  him  from  hence- 
forth ;  of  all  subjects,  he  never  wanted  to  speak  of  the 
terrible  fright  he  had  received  the  previous  night.  So  he 
returned  to  his  rooms,  and  smoked  and  read,  aud  wrote 
letters,  and  dined  at  two,  and  as  the  town  clock  was 
striking  live,  he  was  opening  the  door  of  Mr.  Darcy's 
office.  And  still  no  presentiment  of  what  was  so  near 
dawned  darkly  upon  him  ;  no  weird  foreboding  thrilled 
in  nameless  dread  through  his  breast ;  no  dim  and  gloomy 
shadowing  of  the  a^vf ul  retribution  overtaking  him  so  fast, 
made  his  step  falter  or  his  heart  beat  faster  as  he  opened 
that  door.  Perhaps  it  is  only  to  good  men  that  tlieii 
tmgel-guardians  v^hisper  in  that  "  still  small  voice  "  those 
mystic  warnings,  that  tell  us  poor  pilotless  mariners  on  the 
sea  of  life  of  the  shoals  and  quicksands  ahead.     Perhaps 


OVERTAKEN.  39'< 

it  is  only  men  like  this  man,  whose  sonls  are  stone-blind, 
that  cannot  see  dimly  the  liidden  shipwreck  at  hand,  lie 
&;iw  noihing,  felt  nothing  ;  ho  walked  in  carclesslj,  ynd  saw 
Mr.  Darcy,  old  Squire  Tod,  and  Mr,  Bhike,  sitting  close 
together  and  talking  earnestly.  Lie  wondered  why  they 
all  looked  so  grave,  and  why  two  constables,  who  had 
been  looking  out  of  a  windovv',  should  place  themselves 
one  on  each  side  of  the  door,  as  if  on  guard,  as  he  came  in. 
He  wondered,  but  nothing  more.  Mr.  Darcy  arose  very 
gravely,  very  gravely  bowed,  and  presented  him  Avitli  a 
chair. 

"  Good  afternoon,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  indifferently, 
"  I  hav^e  dropjied  in  on  my  way  to  the  mess-room,  at  the 
request  of  Mr.  Blake,  who  told  me  there  was  a  surprise  in 
store  for  me  here." 

"  There  is,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Darcy,  in  a  strange  tone. 
"  There  is  a  surprise  in  there  for  you,  and  not  a  very 
pleasant  one,  either.     Mr.  Blake  was  quite  right." 

Something  in  his  voice  chilled  Captain  Cavendish,  for 
the  first  time  ;  but  he  stared  at  him  haughtily,  and  pulled 
out  his  gold  hunting-watcli. 

"1  dine  at  six,"  he  said  coldly.     "  It  is  past  live  now. 
I  beg  you  will  let  me  know  what  all  this  means,  as  fast  as- 
possible.     1  liave  no  time  to  spai'e." 

"  You  will  make  time  for  our  business,  Captain  Caven- 
dish ;  and  as  for  the  mess-dinner,  1  think  you  nnist  post- 
pone that  altogether  to-day." 

"  Sir,"  cried  Captain  Cavendish,  rising ;  but  Mr.  Darcy 
returned  his  gaze  stonily. 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  sit  down  !  The  business  that  rendered 
youi"  presence  here  necessary  is  of  so  serious  a  nature — 
30  very  serious  a  nature,  that  all  other  considerations  must 
yield  before  it.  You  will  not  go  to  the  mess-dinner,  I  re- 
peat. 1  do  not  think  you  will  ever  dine  at  the  mess-table 
agaic^" 

The  face  of  Captain  Cavendish  turned  ghastly,  in  spite 
of  every  effort,  and  he  turned  with  a  look  of  suppressed 
fury  at  Val  Blake. 

"  You  traitor !"  he  said,  "  you  have  done  this.  Youi 
invitation  was  only  a  snare  to  entrap  mc." 


398  OVERTAKEN. 

"  Hottest  men,  Captain  Cavendish,"  said  Mr.  Blake, 
composedly,  "  fear  no  snare,  di'ead  no  trap.  It  is  only 
ci-iniiaals,  living  in  daily  dread  of  detection,  who  need  fear 
ti)eir  fellow-men.  I  preferred  you  should  enter  here  of 
your  own  accord,  to  being  brought  here  handcuffed  by  the 
officials  of  the  law." 

Every  drop  of  blood  had  left  the  face  of  the  English- 
man ;  but  ho  strove  manfully  to  brave  it  out. 

"  I  cannot  comprehend  what  you  mean  by  these  in- 
sults," he  said.  "  Who  dare  talk  to  me,  an  English  officer 
and  a  gentleman,  of  liandcuffs  and  crimes?" 

"We  dare,"  leplicd  Mr.  Darcy.  "We,  in  whoin  the 
laws  of  the  land  are  invested.  These  laws  you  have  vilely 
broken,  Mr.  Cavendish — for  I  underetand  you  have  sold 
out  of  the  service,  and  have  no  longer  claim  to  military 
rank.  Iii  the  name  of  the  law,  George  Cavendish,  I  arrest 
you  for  the  willful  murder  of  Jane  Leroy!" 

It  was  an  utter  impossibility  for  the  white  face  of  the 
man  to  grow  whiter  than  it  had  been  for  the  last  ten 
minutes ;  but  at  the  last  words  he  gave  a  sort  of  gasp,  and 
caught  at  the  arms  of  the  chair  on  which  he  sat.  If  they 
had  wanted  moral  conviction  before  of  his  guilt,  they 
wanted  it  no  longer — it  was  written  in  every  line  of 
his  bloodless  face,  in  every  quiver  of  his  trembling  lips,  in 
every  choking  gasp  of  breath  he  drew.  They  sat  looking 
at  him  with  solemn  faces,  but  no  one  spoke.  They  were 
waiting  for  him  to  recover  from  the  shock,  and  break  the 
silence.  He  did  break  it  at  last ;  but  in  a  voice  that  shook 
6o,  the  words  seemed  to  fall  to  pieces  in  his  mouth. 

"It  is  false  !"  he  said,  trying  to  steady  his  shaky  voice. 
"  I  deny  the  charge.  Cnarley  Marsh  was  tried  and  found 
guilty  long  ago.     He  is  the  nnirdercr!" 

"  Charley  Marsh  is  an  innocent  man — you  arc  the 
murderer.  Your  own  face  is  your  accuser,"  said  Mr. 
Darcy.  "I  never  saw  guilt  betrayed  more  plainly  in  all 
my  life.  You  nnirdered  Jane  Leroy — yes,  strangled  her 
for  her  pitiful  wealth." 

"  Who  has  told  you  this  infernal  story  ?"  exclaimed 
the  infuriated  captive,  glaring  upon  the  lawyer.  "  Has 
that  d — d  scoundrel  found ^"     He  stopped  suddenly, 


OVERTAKEN.  899 

nearly  cliokiiig  himself  with  his  own  words,  and  the 
phlegmatic  lawyer  finished  the  sentence. 

"•  Found  Cherrie  ? — ya?. !  You  see  there  is  no  hope  for 
you  now.     Ilere,  Cherrie,  my  girl,  come  out !" 

There  was  a  door  standing  ajar  opposite  them,  that 
looked  as  if  it  led  into  some  inner  and  smaller  office.  As 
the  door  opened  wide,  the  piisoner  caught  a  glimpse  ol 
two  men,  only  a  glimpse;  for  the  next  moment  Cherrie 
stood  before  hhn.  The  kst  faint  glimmer  of  hope  died 
out  in  his  breast  at  sight  of  her  with  that  vindictive  look 
in  hei'  face. 

"  Oh,  you  villain !"  screamed  Cherrie,  sliaking  her  iist 
at  him,  her  black  eyes  flashing  fire.  "  You  mean,  lying, 
deceitful  villain  !  I'll  fix  you  o£E  for  the  way  you  have 
treated  me!  I'll  tell  everything — I  have  told  it,  and  I'll 
tell  it  again,  and  again,  and  again ;  and  I  hope  they'll 
hang  3'ou,  and  I'll  go  to  sec  you  hung  with  the  greatest 
}>leasurc,  I  will !" 

Here  Cherrie,  who  had  not  di'awn  breath,  and  was 
scarlet  in  the  face,  had  to  stop  for  a  second,  and  Mr,  Darcy 
struck  in : 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Cherrie !  Not  another  word  I 
Stick  to  facts — abuse  is  superfluous.  You  see,  Captain 
Cavendish,  with  the  evidence  of  this  witness,  nothing 
more  is  needed  but  drawing  out  a  warrant  for  your 
arrest.  She  is  prepared  to  swear  positively  to  your 
guilt." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Captain  Cavendish,  with  a 
bitter  sneer ;  "  such  a  creature  as  she  is  would  swear  to 
anything,  I  dare  say.  We  all  know  the  character  of 
Cherrie  Nettlcby." 

" Silence,  sir !"  thundered  Mr.  Darcy;  "you  arc  the 
very  last  who  should  ca^t  a  stone  at  her — you,  who  have 
deliberately  led  her  to  her  ruin !" 

"  He  told  me  I  was  his  wife,"  sobbed  Cherrie,  hysteri- 
cally, "  or  I  never  should  have  gone.  I  never  knew  it 
was  a  sham  raarriacre,  until  Mr.  Blake  told  me  so  down  in 
Charlottetown.  \V^e  were  married  in  the  Methodist  meet- 
ing-house, and  I  thought  it  was  a  minister;  and  Mi\ 
Blake  was  there,  and  I  thought  it  waa  all  right  1     Oh, 


400  OVERTAKEN. 

dear  me !"  sobbed  Cherrie,  the  hysterics  grooving  alarm 
ing  ;  "everybody  was  in  a  wicked  plot  against  nie,  and  I 
was  only  a  poor  girl,  aiid  not  up  to  them  ;  and  I  wish  I 
liad  never  been  born — so  there!" 

Squire  Tod  and  Mr.  Darcy  turned  with  looks  of  stem 
inquiry  upon  Mr.  Blake. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  asked  old  Squire  Tod. 
"  You  never  said  anything  about  this,  Blake." 

"  No,"  said  Val,  perfectly  undisturbed ;  "  I  only  told 
you  Cherrie  had  run  away  with  Captain  Cavendish." 

''  That  is  my  irreproachable  accuser,  you  see,"  said 
Captain  Cavendish,  with  sneering  sarcasm.  "  What  that 
woman  says  is  true  ;  I  did  inveigle  her  into  a  sham  mar- 
riage, but  Mr.  Val  Blake  managed  the  whole  affair — got 
the  church  and  the  sham  clergyman,  and  deceived  that 
crying  fool  there  fifty  times  more  than  I  did ;  for  she 
trusted  him !" 

Squire  Tod's  face  darkened  into  a  look  of  stern  sever- 
ity as  he  turned  upon  Val. 

"Mr.  Blake,"  he  said,  "I  am  more  astonished  and 
sliocked  by  this  than  anything  I  have  heard  yet.  That 
you  should  be  guilty  of  so  base  and  unmanly  an  act — you, 
whom  we  all  respected  and  tinisted — as  to  entrap  a  poor 
weak-minded  child  (for  she  •  was  only  a  child)  to  misery 
and  ruin !  Shame,  shame  on  you,  sir,  for  such  a  coward's 
act !" 

Very  few  people  ever  suspected  Val  Blake  of  dignity. 
One  would  have  thought  he  must  have  shrunk  under 
these  stern  words,  abashed.  But  he- did  not — he  held  his 
he::d  proudly  erect — he  rose  with  the  occasion,  and  was 
dignitied. 

"  One  moment  1"  he  said,  "  wait  one  moment,  squire, 
before  you  condemn  me !  Gentlemen,"  he  rose  up  and 
threw  wide  the  door  of  the  room  from  which  Cherrie  had 
emerijed,  "  gentlemen,  please  to  come  out." 

Everybody  looked,  curious  and  expectant.  CheiTie 
ceased  the  sobbing  to  look,  and  even  Captain  Cavendish 
forgot  for  a  moment  his  supreme  peril,  in  waiting  for 
what  was  to  come  next. 

Two  gentlemen,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Drone,   of  the 


OVERTAKEN.  '40I 

Methodist  persuasion,  and  another  clerical  and  white 
neck-clothed  gentleman,  «ame  out  and  stood  before  tlie 
company.  Mr.  Drone  was  well  known,  the  other  was  a 
Btranger,  a  young  man,  with  rather  a  dashing  air,  consid- 
ering his  calling,  and  a  pair  of  briglit,  roving  dark  eyes, 
(liptain  Cavendish  had  only  seen  him  once  in  his  life  be- 
lore,  but  he  recognized  iiim  instantaneously. 

"•  You  all  know  Mr.  Drone,  ^ntlemen,"  said  Val, 
''  tliis  other  is  the  Keverend  Mr.  jBarrett,  of  Narraville. 
Islw  Barrett,  it  is  a  year  since  you  were  in  Speckport,  is  it 
not!!" 

"'  It  is,"  replied  Mr.  Barrett,  with  the  air  of  a  witness 
under  cross-o x am i  n a tion . 

"  V/ill  you  relate  what  occurred  on  the  last  night 
of  your  stay  in  this  town,  on  the  occasion  of  tiiat 
visit  V 

"  With  pleasure,  sir !  I  am  a  minister  of  the  Gospel, 
gentlemen,  as  you  may  see,"  said  Mr.  Barrett,  bowing  to  the 
room,  ''  and  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Drone's.  I  had  been  settled 
al)out  two  years  up  in  Narraville  last  summer,  when  I  took 
it  into  my  head  to  run  down  here  for  a  week  or  so  on  a  visit 
to  Mr.  Drone.  I  had  known  Mr.  Blake  for  yeai-s,  and 
had  a  very  high  respect  for  his  uprightness  and  integrity, 
else  I  never  should  have  complied  with  the  singular  re- 
quest he  made  me  the  day  before  I  left."       * 

"  What  was  the  request  ?"  asked  Mr.  Darcy,  on  wliom 
a  new  light  was  bursting. 

"He  came  to  me,"  Said  Mr.  Barrett,  "and  having 
drawn  from  me  a  promise  of  strict  secrecy,  told  me  a 
somewhat  singular  story.  A  gentleman  of  rank  and  po- 
sition, an  English  oliiter,  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  gar- 
dener's pretty  daughter,  a  young  lady  with  more  beauty 
than  common  sense,  and  wanted  to  entrap  her  into  a  sham 
marriage.  He  had  intrusted  the  case  to  Mr.  Blake,  whoso 
principles,  he  imagined,  wei-e  as  loose  as  his  own,  and  Mr. 
Blake  told  me  he  would  inevitably  succeed  in  his  diaboli- 
cal plot  if  we  did  not  frustrate  him.  Mr.  Blake's  pro- 
posal was,  that  I  should  marry  them  in  reality,  while 
letting  him  think  it  was  only  a  mockery  of  a  holy  ^  ordi- 
nance.    He  urged  the  case  upon  me  strongly ;  he  said  the 


402  OVERTAKEN. 

man  was  a  gambler,  a  libertine,  and  a  fortmie-hnnter ;  that 
he  was  striving  to  win  for  his  wife  a  most  estimable  yonug 
lad  J — Miss  Marsh — for  her  fortune  merely ;  that  if  lie 
succeeded,  she  would  be  miserable  for  life,  and  that  this 
was  the  only  way  to  prevent  it.  He  told  me  the  man  was 
so  tlioroughly  bad,  that  all  compunctions  would  be  thrown  ' 
away  on  him;  and  at  last  I  consented.  To  prevent  a  grea:. 
crime,  I  married  them  privately  in  Mr.  Drone's  church. 
Mr.  Blake  vras  the  witness,  and  the  marriage  is  inserted  in 
the  register.  I  told  Mr.  Drone  before  I  left,  and  he  con- 
sented to  keep  the  matter  secret  until  such  time  as  it  was 
necessary  to  divulge  it.  I  married  George  Percy  Caven- 
dish and  Charlotte  i^ottleby  the  night  before  I  left  Speck- 
port,  and  took  a  copy  of  the  certificate  with  me ;  and  I 
am  ready  to  swear  to  the  validity  of  the  marriage  at  any 
time  and  in  any  place.  I  recognize  them  both,  and  that 
man  and  woman  are  lawfully  husband  and  wife !" 

Mr.  Barrett  bowed  and  was  silent.  Poor  Chcrrie, 
with  one  glad  cry,  sprang  forward  and  fell  on  her  knees 
before  Mr.  Val  Blake,  and  did  him  theatrical  liomage  on 
the  spot.  Yal  lifted  her  up,  and  looked  in  calm  triumph 
at  the  baffled  Englishman,  and  saw  that  that  gentleman's 
iacc  was  purple  with  furious  rage. 

"Liar!"  he  half  screamed,  glaring  with  tigerish  eyes 
jjs  he  hcar^  Mr.  Barrett,  "  it  is  false !  You  never  per- 
formed it — I  never  saw  you  before !" 

"  You  have  forgotten  me,  I  dare  say,"  said  Mr.  Bar- 
rett, politely,  "  but  1  had  the  pleasure  of  marrying  you  to 
this  lady,  nevertheless.  It  is  easily  proved,  and  1  am  pre- 
pared to  prove  it  on  any  occasion." 

"  You  may  as  well  take  it  e;isy.  Cavendish,"  said  Val. 
"Cherrio  is  your  wife  fast  enough  !  Don't  cry,  Cherrie, 
jt's  all  right  now,  and  you're  Mi's.  Cavendish  as  sure  as 
Church  and  State  can  make  you." 

"It's  a  most  extraordinary  story,"  said  Squire  Tod, 
"and  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Blake.  How 
came  you  to  let  him'  get  engaged  to  Miss  Henderson, 
knowing  this  f 

'*  Oh,"  said  Val,  carelessly,  "  Miss  Hendei"son  never 
cared  a  snap  about  him ;  and  then  Paul  Wyndham  came 


OVERTAKEN.  40S 

along  and  cut  him  out,  just  as  I  was  getting  ready  to  tell 
the  story.  1  meant  to  make  liitn  find  Clierrie  before  he 
left  Speckport,  and  publish  the  marriage;  only  Provi- 
dence let  mo  lind  her  out  myself,  to  clear  the  innocent, 
and  bring  this  man's  guilt  home.  I  had  to  keep  Cherric 
in  tiie  dark,  as  I  never  would  have  got  that  confession  out 
of  her." 

"  Well,"  Siiid  Mr.  Darcy,  rising,  "  it  is  growing  dark, 
and  1  think  there  is  no  more  to  be  done  this  evening. 
Burke,  call  a  cab.  Captain  Cavendish,  you  will  have 
to  exchange  the  mess-room  for  the  town-jail  to-night." 

Captain  Cavendish  said  nothing.  His  fury  had  turned 
to  black,  bitter  sullenness,  and  his  handsome  face  was  dis- 
turbed by  a  savage  scowl. 

"  You,  gentlemen,  and  you,  Mrs.  Cavendish,"  said 
Mr.  Darcy,  bowing  to  Cherrie,  and  smiling  slightly,  "will 
hold  yourselves  in  readiness  to  give  evidence  at  the  trial. 
I  think  we  will  have  no  difficulty  in  bringing  out  a  clear 
case  of  willful  murder." 

An  awful  picture  came  before  the  mind  of  the  scowl- 
ing and  sullen  captain.  A  gaping  crowd  in  the  raw  dawn 
of  a  cheerless  morning,  a  horrible  gallows,  the  dangling 
rope,  the  hangman's  hand  adjusting  it  round  his  neck,  the 
drop,  a  convulsed  figure  quivering  in  the  air  in  ghastly 

agony,  and  then Great  beads  of  cold  sweat  broke 

out  on  his  forehead,  and  his  livid  face  was  contracted  by 
a  spasm  of  mortal  a^^ony.  Then  he  saw  the  two  clergy- 
men, Mr.  Blake,  and  Cherrie  standing  up  to  go. 

"I  think  I'll  take  you  home,  Cherrie,"  said  Val,  "  I'll 
get  another  cab  for  you!  Won't  they  open  their  eyes 
when  they  see  you,  though  ?" 

Mr.  Blake  and  Cherrie  departed,  followed  by  the  two 
clergymen ;  and  no  one  spoke  to  the  ghastly-looking  man, 
sitting,  guarded  by  the  constable,  staring  at  the  iio»)r,  with 
that  black,  desperate  scowl,  that  so  changed  his  face  that 
his  nearest  friend  would  hardly  have  known  it.  Cherrie 
trembled  and  shrank  away  iis  she  passed  him,  and  did  not 
breathe  freely  until  she  was  safely  seated  in  the  cab  beside 
Val,  and  rattling  away  tlirough  the  streets  on  her  wajf 
home. 


404  OVERTAKEN. 

Home !  how  poor  Cherrie's  heart  longed  for  the  peace 

of  that  little  cottage  where  those  who  loved  her,  and  had 
mourned  her,  dwelt.  ^  She  was  crying  quietly,  as  she  sat 
silently  away  in  a  corner,  thinking  what  u  long,  and  wretch- 
ed, aud  forlorn,  and  dreary  year  the  last  had  been,  and 
wliat  a  foolish  girl  she  had  been,  and  how  much  she  owed 
to  Val  Blake. 

Mr.  Blake  did  not  disturb  her  reflections ;  lie  was 
tliinkhig  of  wronged  Charley  Marsh,  exiled  from  home, 
branded  as  a  felon. 

TJio  cab,  for  which  Mr.  Darcy  had  sent  one  of  the  con- 
stables, drew  up  at  the  office  door,  as  Mr.  Blake's  drove 
away ;  and  the  prisoner,  between  the  two  officials,  with 
Mr.  Darcy  following  close  behind,  came  down-stairs. 

Captain  Cavendish  had  gone  down-stairs  very  quietly 
between  his  two  guards,  neither  speaking  nor  offering  the 
slightest  resistance;  but  his  eyes  were  furtively  taking  in 
everything,  and  the  captive's  instinct  of  flight  was  strong 
upoi'i  liim.  One  of  the  constables  went  forward  to  open 
the  cab-door,  the  other  had  but  a  slight  grasp  of  his  arm. 
The  murky  darkness,  the  empty  street,  favored  him. 

With  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  he  wheeled  round, 
struck  the  constable  a  blinding  blow  in  the  face  with  his 
tist,  that  forced  him  to  release  his  hold,  and,  like  a  flasii, 
he  sped  off,  turned  sharp  round  a  corner,  and  was  gone ! 
The  whole  thiuij  had  been  the  work  of  two  seconds.  Be- 
lore  any  one  among  them  could  quite  comprehend  he  had 
really  gone,  he  was  entirely  out  of  sight. 

The  next  instant,  the  still  street  was  in  an  uproar,  the 
two  constables  and  Mr.  Darcy,  siiouting  for  assistance  as 
t!iey  went,  started  in  pursuit.  The  corner  round  which 
Captiiin  Cavendish  had  cut,  and  which  they  now  took,  led 
to  a  dirty  waterside  street,  branching  oil  into  numerous 
\vharves,  crowded  with  hogsheads,  bales,  barrels,  and  piles 
of  lumber,  atiording.  a  secure  and  handy  hiding-place  for 
any  runaway.  It  was  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  hay- 
stack even  in  daylight ;  and  now,  in  the  thick  fog  and 
darkness,  it  was  the  wildest  of  wildgoose-chases.  They 
ran  from  one  wharf  to  another,  collecting  a  crowd  about 
them  wherever  they  went ;  and  all  the  time,  he  for  whom 


OVERTAKEN.  40a 

they  were  searching  was  quietly  watching  them  in  a  black 
and  lilthy  alley,  that  cut  like  a  dirty  vein  of  black  mud 
from  that  waterside  street  to  the  one  above. 

Drawing  his  hat  far  down  over  his  eyes,  Captain  Ca- 
vendish started  up  tlie  alley,  and  found  himself  again  in 
the  street  he  had  left.  The  cab  still  stood  before  the  oihce 
door  of  Mr.  Darcy ;  he  gave  it  one  derisive  glance  as  he 
strode  rapidly  alon^,  and  struck  into  another  by-street. 
If  he  could  only  make  good  his  escape ;  if  he  could  baffle 
them  yet !  Hope  sent  his  heart  in  mad  plunges  against 
his  side — if  he  could  only  escape ! 

Suddenly,  a  thought  Hashed  upon  him — the  can,. 
There  had  been  a  picnic  that  day,  and  an  excursion-train, 
he  knew,  left  at  half-past  seven  to  fetch  the  picnickers 
home.  If  he  could  only  gel  to  the  depot  in  time,  he  might 
stay  in  hiding  about  the  country  until  the  first  hue  and 

vxy  was  over,  then,  in  disguise,  make  his  way  to  S , 

and  take  the  steamer  for  Qiiebec.  He  had  a  large  sum  of 
money  about  him  ;  he  might  do  it — he  might  escape  yet. 

He  palled  out  his  watch  as  he  almost  ran  along,  twenty- 
live  minutes  past  seven ;  only  live  minutes,  and  a  long 
way  olt"  still,  lie  hed  through  the  dark  streets  like  a  mad- 
man, but  no  one  knew  him,  and  reached  the  depot  at  last, 
panting  and  breathless.  A  crowd  lingered  on  the  plat- 
form, a  bell  was  clanging,  and  the  train  was  in  motion. 
^3sporation  goaded  him  on ;  he  made  a  furious  leap  on 
boaivl,  and — there  was  a  wild  cry  of  horror  from  the  by- 
standers, an  av/f ul  shriek  of  "  O  my  God !"  from  a  falling 
man,  and  then  all  was  uproar,  and  confusion,  and  horror, 
and  dismay.  Whether  in  his  blind  haste  he  had  missed 
his  footing,  whether  the  darkness  of  the  night  deceived 
him,  whether  the  train  was  moving  faster  than  he  had 
supposed,  no  one  evei^  knew  ;  but  he  was  down,  and  ground 
under  the  rem  .n-seless  wheels  of  the  terrible  Juggernaut. 

The  tnun  was  stopped,  and  everybody  Hocked  around 
in  consternation.  Two  of  the  brakemcn  lified  up  some- 
thing—something that  had  once  been  a  man,  but  which 
was  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  of  humanity  now.  No 
one  there  recognized  him  ;  they  had  only  heard  that  ono 
agonized  cry  wrung  from  the  unbelieving  soul  in  that  hor* 


408  THE    VESPER    nTMN: 

riblo  moment — giving  the  lie  to  his  whole  past  life — hut 
tliey  liacl  heard  or  knew  nothing  more  Some  one  brought 
a  door ;  and  they  laid  the  bloody  and  mangled  mass  upon 
it,  and  now  raised  it  reverentially  on  their  shoulders,  and 
curried  it  slowly  to  the  nearest  house.  A  cloth  was  thrown 
over  the  white,  staring  face,  the  only  part  of  him,  it  seemed, 
not  mangled  into  jelly;  and  so  they  carried  him  away  from 
the  spot,  a  dreadful  sight,  which  those  who  saw  never 
forgot. 


CHAPTER  XXXiy. 

THE  VESPER    HYMN. 

E  was  not  dead.  He  was  not  even  insensible. 
While  they  carried  him  carefully  through  the 
chill,  black  night,  and  when  they  canied  him 
into  the  nearest  house,  and  laid  him  tenderly 
on  a  bed,  the  large,  dark  eyes  were  wide  open 
and  tixcd,  but  neither  in  death  nor  unconsciousness.  It 
was  a  hotel  tliey  had  carried  him  to ;  and  one  of  the  pretty 
chambermaids,  who  owned  a  sentimentally-tender  heart, 
and  read  a  great  many  novels,  cried  as  she  looked  at  liim. 
"  Poor  fellow !"  she  said,  to  another  pretty  chamber- 
maid ;  "  it's  such  a  pity,  ain't  it — and  he  so  handsome  ?" 

''  Who  is  he,  I  wonder  ?"  the  other  chambennaid  want- 
ed to  know ;  but  no  one  could  tell  her. 

"  He  looks  like  an  officer,"  some  one  remarked ;  "  I 
think  I've  seen  him  in  the  toVn  before,  and  I'm  pretty 
sure  he's  one  of  the  officei*s." 

"  The  doctor  will  know,  maybe,"  suggested  the  land- 
lord. "  Poor  fellow  I  I'm  afraid  it's  all  up  with  liim.  I 
don't  think  he  can  speak." 

lie  had  never  spoken  but  that  once,  when  the  soul  of 
the  inlidel,  in  that  supreme  moment  of  mortal  agony,  in 
spite  of  the  infidel  creed  of  his  life,  had  uttered  that  awful 


TUB     VESPER    UTMN.  407 

invocatiou— "  O  my  God  !"  But  the  power  of  speech  was 
not  gone,  nor  of  liearing;  he  retained  all  his  senses,  and, 
strangely  enough,  did  not  seem  to  suffer  much.  He  lay 
quiescent,  his  dark  eyes  wide  open,  and  staring  vacantly 
straight  ahead,  his  dark'  hair,  dabbled  with  blood,  falling 
loose  on  tlie  pillow  and  around  his  bloodless  face.  They 
had  drawn  a  wliite  spread  over  liini ;  and  he  had  a  strauo-ely 
corpse-like  look,  with  his  white  set  face,  and  marblelike 
rigidity.  But  life  burned  yet  in  the  strained,  wide-open 
eyes. 

The  doctor  came — it  was  Dr.  Leach  ;  and  he  knew  him 
immediately,  and  told  the  gaping  and  curious  bystanders 
who  he  was.  He  was  very  much  shocked,  and  more 
shocked  still  when  the  white  spread  was  drawn  awav,  and 
the  terrible  truth  revealed.  The  eyes  of  the  wounded  man 
followed  him  as  he  made  his  examination,  but  \v\{\\  no 
eagerness  or  hopefulness — only  with  a  dull  and  awful  sort 
of  apathy. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  Captain  Cavendish  ?"  Dr.  Leacli 
asked,  tenderly  touching  the  heavy,  dark  hair  falling  over 
his  face. 

"Yes.     How  long ?" 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  not  because  he  was  una- 
ble to  do  it,  but  that  he  evidently  thought  he  had  finished 
it,  and  liis  eyes  never  once  left  the  physician's  face. 

Dr.  Leach  looked  very  sadly  down-in  the  dai'k,  inquir- 
ing eyes. 

"  My  poor  fellow !"  he  said,  "  it  is  hard,  I  know,  and 
for  one  so  young  and  so  far  from  all  your  friends.  It  ia 
hard  to  die  like  this ;  but  it  is  Heaven  s  will,  and  we  must 
submit." 

"  How  long  2"  repeated  the  sufferer,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  him,  and  with  that  steady,  inquiring  gaze. 

"  You  mean,  how  long  can  you  last  ?  1  am  afraid — I 
am  afraid,  my  poor  boy,  but  a  short  time ;  not  over  three 
hours  at  the  most." 

The  dark,  searching  eyes  turned  slowly  away  from  his 
face,  and  fixed  themselves  on  vacancy  as  before  ;  but  ho 
showed  no  signs  of  any  emotion  whatever.  Physical  and 
metital  sense  of  suffering  and  fearing  seemed  alike  to  havo 


408  THE     VESPER    HYMN. 

forsaken  liim  in  this  last  dreadful  hour.  He  had  been  & 
bad  man  ;  the  life  that  lay  behind'  him  was  a  shameful 
record.  He  had  been  a  gamester,  a  swindler,  a  libertine, 
a  robber,  and  a  murderer  ;  and  now  he  was  dying  in  his, 
sins,  in  a  dull  stupor,  without  remorse  for  the  past  or  fear 
of  the  awful  future.  Dr.  Leach  stooped  over  him  again, 
wondering  at  his  unnatural  apathy. 

"  Would  you  like  a  clergyman,  my  poor  boy?"  he  said. 

«  No !" 

"  Is  there  any  one  you  would  like  to  see  ?  Your  time 
is  very  short,  remember." 

Captain  Cavendish  turned  to  him  with  something 
like  human  interest  in  hisglance,  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  "Val  Blak;e,"  he  said,  "  and  Mr. 
Darcy." 

"  I'll  send  for  them,"  said  the  doctor,  going  out,  and 
dispatcliing  a  couple  of  messengei's  in  hot  haste.  "  He 
wants  to  make  his  will,  I  suppose,"  Dr.  Leach  thought, 
as  he  returned  to  the  bedroom.  "  Poor  fellow ;  and  V  al 
Blake  was  his  friend !" 

Dr.  Leach  had  requested  one  of  the  messengers  to  go 
for  the  army-surgeon  before  he  came  back.  He  knew  the 
case  was  utterly  hopeless,  but  still  it  was  better  to  have 
the  surgeon  there.  He  found  his  patient  Ipng  as  he  had 
left  him,  starin^j  blankly  at  a  lamp  liaring  on  a  table  under 
the  window,  while  the  slow  minutes  trailed  away,  and  his 
short  span  of  life  wore  away.  His  last  night  on  earth ! 
Did  he  think  of  it  as  he  lay  there,  never  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  lamp-flame,  even  when  the  doctor  came  to  his 
bedside  again  and  held  something  to  his  lips. 

"  My  dear,"  Dr.  Leach  said,  feeUug  as  though  he  were 
speaking,  to  a  woman,  and  again  stroking  back  his  hair 
with  a  tender  touch ;  "  hadn't  you  better  see  a  clergyman  ? 
You  are  dying,  you  know." 

"  Did  you  send  for  them  ?"  said  Captain  Cavendish, 
looking  at  him. 

"  For  Blake  and  Darcy  ?  Yes.  But  will  I  not  send 
for  a  clergyman  too  ?" 

«No.'^ 


THE     VESPER    HYMN.  409 

"Would  yon  like  me  to  read  to  you,  then?  There  is 
a  Bible  on  the  table  ?" 

"No." 

lie  sank  back  into  liis  lethargic  indifference  once  more 
and  looked  at  the  lamp  again.  Dr.  Leach  sighed  as  he 
sat  down  beside  liim,  to  watch  and  wait  for  the  coming 
of  the  others. 

They  eame  at  last — Val  Blake  and  Mr.  Darcy — know- 
ing all  beforehand.  Their  presence  seemed  to  rouse  him. 
Dr.  Leach  would  have  left  the  room,  but  the  lawyer  de- 
tained him. 

"  Von  may  as  well  stay,"  he  said,  "  it  can  make  no 
difference  to  him  now  if  all  the  world  hears  him.  It  is 
not  his  will — it  is  a  confession  he  lias  to  make." 

Mr.  Darcy  was  riglit.  Strangely  enough  he  wanted  to 
do  that  one  act  of  justice  before  fie  went  out  of  life,  and  he 
seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  mlly,  and  rouse  himself  to  do 
it.  The  doctor  gave  him  a  stimulant,  for  he  was  per- 
ceptibly sinking,  and  the  lawyer  sat  down  to  MTite  out 
the  broken  sentences  of  that  dying  confession.  It  was 
not  long ;  but  it  was  long  enougli  to  triumphantly  vindi- 
cate Charley  Marsh  before  any  court  in  the  world,  and 
just  as  it  was  completed  the  surgeon  came.  But  a  more 
terrible  visitor  was  there  too,  before  whom  they  held 
their  breath  in  mnte  awe.  Death  stood  terrible  and  invisi- 
ble in  tlieir  midst,  and  no  word  was  spoken.  They  stood 
around  tlie  bed,  pale  and  silent,  and  watched  him  go  out 
of  life  with  solemn  awe  at  their  hearts.  There  was  no 
+:-ightful  death  struggles— he  died  peacefully  as  a  little 
child,  but  it  was  a  fearful  deathbed  for  all  that.  The  soul 
of  the  unbeliever  had  gone  to  be  judged.  "  God  be  mer- 
ciful to  him !"  Dr.  Leach  had  said,  and  they  had  all  ans- 
wered, "Amen."  They  drew  the  counterpane  over  the 
marble  face,  beautiful 'in  death,  and  left  the  room  to- 
gether. All  were  pale,  but  the  face  of  Val  Blake  was 
ghastly.  lie  leaned  against  an  open  v.'indow,  with  a  feel- 
ki^uf  deadly  sickness^at  his  heart.  It  was  all  so  awful, 
po'suddenlv  awful ;  they,  poor  erring  moi-tals,  had  judged 
and  condemned  him,  and  now  he  liafl  gone  before  the 
18 


410  TEE    VESPER    H7MN. 

Great  Judge  of  all  mankind — and  the  dark  story  had 
ended  in  the  solemn  wonder  of  the  winding-sheet. 

"  Speak  nothing  but  good  of  the  dead,"  a  pitiful  old 
proverb  says.  '"  We  were  fiiends  once,"  v  al  Blake 
thought.     ''  I  never  want  to  speak  of  him  again." 

The  body  of  the  dead  man  Avas  to  be  taken  to  his 
hotel.  The  surgeon  and  Mr.  Darcy  volunteered  to  ar- 
'  range  it,  and  Dr.  Leach  and  Yal  left.  The  doctor  had 
his  patients  to  attend  to,  and  Val  was  going  to  tell  Cherrie. 
She  was  his  wife  and  ought  to  kn(T\v,  and  Yal  remembered 
how  she  had  loved  the  dead  man  once.  But  that  love  had 
died  out  long  ago,  under  his  cruel  neglect ;  and  though 
she  cried  when  she  heard"  the  tragic  end  of  the  man  to 
whom  she  liad  been  bound  by  the  mysterious  tie  of  marri- 
age, they  were  no  very  passionate  tears.  And  before  the 
Nettleby  family  had  quite  learned  to  comprehend  she  was 
a  Avife  they  found  that  Mrs.  Cherrie  Cavendish  was  a 
widow  I 

Of  all  the  shocks  which  Speckport  had  received  with- 
in the  last  twenty  years,  there  was  none  to  equal, this. 
Charley  Mai*sh  innocent,  Captain  Cavendish  guilty ! 
Cherrie  Nettleby  come  back,  his  wife,  his  widow  !  And 
still  it  spread,  and  "still  the  wonder  grew;"  and  it  was 
like  a  play  or  a  sensation  novel,  and  the  strange  old  prov- 
erb, "Truth  is  stra:nger  than. fictien,"  was  on  the  tongues 
of  all  the  wiseacres  in  the  town. 

And  while  the  good  j)eople  talked  and  exclaimed  and 
wondered,  and  told  the  story  over  and  over  and  over 
again  to  one  ariother,  and  found  it  ever  new,  the  dead 
man  lay  in  his  own  elegant  rooni  in  the  hotel,  and  Cher- 
rie, his  widow,  sat  at  his  bed  head,  feeling  she  liad  become 
all  at  once  a  heroine,  and  making  the  most  of  it. 

Among  the  visitors  to  that  darkened  room  were  Mr. 
^  and  Mrs.  Wyiidham,  Miss  Blair,  and  Mr.  Blake.  Olive 
Wy.Klham,  stately  and  l)Gautiful ,  as  ever,  but  paler  and 
thinner,  and  less  defiantly  bright  than  of  old,  stood  be- 
side the  bed  of  death,  aiid  looked  down  on  the  white, 
beautiful  face  of  ^he  dead  man,  with  a  strange,  rcmoree- 
ful  pang  at  her  heart.  How  her  soul  bowed  down  before 
the  disembodied  spirit,  and  how  touching  was  the  marble 


TEE    VESPEIi    IITMN.  ill 

beant}'  of  that  rigid  face !  If  he  had  been  old  and  ugly, 
perhaps  people  would  not  have  felt  so  sadly  pitiful  about 
tiis  dreadful  fate  ;  but  he  was  so  young  and  so  handsome, 
that  tears  came  into  their  eyes,  and  tJiey  forgot  he  had 
been  a  \rillain  in  life,  and  went  away  shaking  their  heads 
and  saying,  '"Poor  fellow!  Poor  fellow!  It's  such  a 
pity!"  _ 

Laura  Blair — but  Laura  was  always  tender-hearted — 
cried  as  she  looked  at  him,  and  thought  how  much  sliehad 
liked  liim,  and  what  pleasant  hours  they  had  spent  together, 

lie  was  very  bad,  of  course,  but  still Laura  never 

could  got  any  further,  for  the  tears  came  so  fast  they 
choked  her  words. 

She  actually  kissed  Cherrie,  who  cried  from  sympathy, 
and  Val  Blake  looked  at  her  with  a  more  tender  glance 
than  any  one  had  ever  seen  in  Val's  unsentimental  eyea 
befoi'o. 

The  pony-phaeton  from  Kedmon  was  in  waiting  at  tin 
hotel  door.  Mr.  Wyndham  assit^ted  the  ladies  in,  and 
touched  his  hat  as  if  in  leave-taking. 

"  Are  yon  not  going  back  ?"  his  wife  asked,  with 
strange  timidity.  She  was  in  the  habit  now  of  speaking 
to  him,  and  always  in  that  strangely-hurried  tone  so 
foreign  to  her  character. 

"  No,"  Mr.  Wyndham  said,  "  not  just  now.  I  shall 
return  before  dinner." 

The  cari-iage  drove  off.  Mr.  Wyndham  took  Val's 
ann,  lit  a  cigar,  and  strolled  with  him  down  Queen  Street. 

"  IVs  a  very  sad  business!"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "I 
am  sorry  for  him,  poor  fellow!— one  can't  help  it;  but, 
after  all,  I  don't  know  that  it  is  not  a  merciful  deliverance. 
The  public  disgrace,  the  imprisonment,  the  trial,  tho 
sentence,  would  have  been  to  him  far  more  terrible. 
There  arc  woree  things  than  death  !"' 

He  said  the  last  words  with  a  sudden  bitterness  that 
made  Val  look  at  him.  "  It's  his  mother  he  is  thinking 
of,"  said  Mr.  Blake  to  himself.  "Poor  woman,  she's 
mad !"  ^      , 

"  And  it  is  really  true  that  he  confessed  all  before  he 


41 'J  THE     VESPER    ETMN. 

died  ?"  Mr.  Wyndham  asked  ;  "  and  exculpated,  beyond 
all  doubt,  Charley  Marsh  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Val ;  "  Charley  Marsh  is  free  to  return  to 
Speckport  whenever  he  pleases  now.  I  always  knew  he 
was  innoceni.  IJiad  a  letter  from  him  last  night,  too,  in- 
closing one  to  his  mother."  ^ 

"  indeed !"  Mr.  Wyndhara  said,  with  a  look  of  inter- 
est.    "  Is  he  well  ?     Is  he  still  in  the  army  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  his  time  is  nearly  up,  it  appears.  I  shall 
write  to  him  to-day,  and  tell  him  to  come  back  to  us.  I 
have  a  note — ^she  called  it  a  note,  though  it's  four  sheets 
of  paper  closely  written,  and  she  sat  up  until  three  this 
morning  to  finish  it — from  Laura  Blair,  to  inclose  to  him. 
If  he  is  proof  against  four  sheets  of  entreaty  from  a  lady, 
all  I  can  say  to  him  will  not  avail  much.^' 

"  Laura  is  a  good  httle  girl,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham, 
"  and  very  much  in  earnest  about  all  her  friends.  You 
ought  to  marry  her,  Blake." 

"  Eh  !"  said  Mr.  Blake,  aghast. 

"  You  ought  to  marry  her,"  repeated  Mr.  Wyndham, 
as  composedly  as  though  he  were  saying,  "  Yon  ought  to 
smoke  another  cigar."  "  I  am  sure  you  will  never  come 
across  one  more  suited  to  the  purpose,  if  you  live  to  be  as 
old  as  Methuselah's  cat  I" 

"  My  dear  Wyndham,"  expostulated  Mr.  Blake,  rather 
shocked  than  otherwise,  "  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  1 
give  yon  my  word  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  in  my 
life." 

''  I  don't  dop.bt  it,  in  the  least ;  but  you  know  the  prov- 
erb, '  Better  late  than  never.'  " 

"  Konsense  !     What  do  I  want  with  a  wife  ?" 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  think ;  if  only  to  save  the 
trouble  of  boarding  out,  and  securing  some  one  to  darn 
your  stockings  and  button  your  shirt-collar.  Have  you 
never  indulged  in  any  vision,  O  most  prosaic  of  men  1  of 
.1  quiet  domestic  fireside,  garnished  on  one  side  by  your- 
Beit,  with  your  feet  in  slippers,  and  on  the  other  by  a  do- 
eiie  cat  and  a  Mi-s.  Blake  ?" 

"  Never  !"  responded  Mr.  Blake,  emphatically. 

"  Then  it's  time  you  did  1     Your  hair's  turning  gray, 


THE     VESPER    HTMN.  41% 

man,  and  yonr  sister  has  left  yon !  Come,  ronse  up,  old 
fellow,  and  secure  that  little  prize,  Laura  Blair,  before 
Bome  more  ardent  wooer  bears  her  off,  and  leaves  you  in 
the  lurch." 

Mr.  Blair  stared  at  him. 

"  T  say,  Wyndham,  what  crotchet  have  you  got  in  your 
head  today  ?  Marry  Laura  Blair !  AVhat  should  I  marry 
her  for,  more  than  any  one  else  ?" 

"  Well,  for  pure  innate  artlessness,  Mr.  Blake,"  he 
said,  ""  I'll  back  you  against  the  world!  Why  should  you 
marry  Laura  Blair,  indeed  !  Why,  you  overgrown  infant, 
because  yon  are  in  love  with  her !     That's  why !" 

"Am  1  f  responded  Mr.  Blake,  helplessly.  "I  didn't 
know  it.     Is  she  in  love  with  me,  too?" 

"  Ask  her,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham,  still  laughing.  "  Here 
we  arc  at  the  office.     Good-morning  to  you." 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?" 

"  Not  this  morning ;  I  am  going  to  Rosebush  Cot- 
tage." 

"  Oh,"  said  Yal,  hesitatingly,  for  it  was  an  under- 
stood thing  the  subject  was  veiy  painful,  "  how  is  your 
mother  V 

"She  is  no  better,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham,  briefly. 
"  Good-morning  I" 

Mr.  Blake  went  into  his  sanctum,  and  the  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  write  to  Chai-ley  and  tell  him  all. 

"  Come  back  to  Speckport,  dear  old  boy,"  wrote  Val, 
«  everyl)ody  is  in  a  state  of  remoi-se,  you  know,  and  dying 
to  sec  you.  Come  back  for  your  mother'S|  sake,  and  we 
will  give  you  such  a  reception  as  no  man  has  had  since  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  long  life  to  him  !  visited  our  town.  Come 
back,  Charley,  and  cheer  us  again  with  the  sight  of  your 
honest  sonsie  face." 

It  took  some  time  for  Speckport  to  recover  thoroughly 
from  the  severe  shock  its  nervous  system  had  received  m 
the  death  of  Captain  Cavendish,  and  the  various  wonder- 
ful facts  that  death  brought  to  light.  It  was  fully  a  month 
before  the  wonder  quite  subsided,  and  people  could  talk 
of  other  things  over  the  tea-table. 

Cherrie,  the  bereaved,  was  safely  back  again  m  the 


414  THE    VESPER    HYMN. 

parental  nest.  Creditors  had  flocked  in  with  the  dead 
raan's  long  bills ;  and  when  all  was  settled,  nothing  was 
left  for  the  widow.  But  some  good  men  among  tlicm 
made  np  two  hundred  ponnds,  and  Mrs.  Wjndham  added 
another  hundred,  and  the  tliree  were  presented  to  Mre. 
Cavendish,  with  the  sympathy  of  the  donors.  It  was  a 
little  fortune  for  Cherrie,  though  a  pitiful  enduig  of  the 
brilHant  match  she  had  made ;  and  she  took  it,  crying  very 
much,  and  was  humbly  thankful.  Once  more  she  tripped 
tlie  streets  of  her  native  town,  and  her  crape,  and  bomba- 
zine, and  widow's  cap,  were  charmingly  becoming ;  and 
when  the  roses  began  to  return  to  her  cheeks,  slie  was 
prettier  than  ever. 

The  town  was  quiet,  and  October  was  wearing  away. 
The  last  week  of  that  month  brought  a  letter  from  Char- 
ley Marsh — a  letter  that  was  not  like  Charley,  but  was  very 
grave,  almost  sad. 

"  Under  God,  my  dear  Val,"  he  wrote,  "  I  owe  the 
restoration  of  my  good  name  to  you.  I  know  all  you  have 
done  for  me  and  mine — my  poor  mother  has  told  me ;  but 
I  cannot  thank  you.  I  am  sure  you  do  not  want  me  to 
thank  you  ;  l)ut  it  is  all  written  deep  in  my  heart,  and  will 
be  buried  with  me.  I  am  coming  back  to  Speckport — ah ! 
dear  old  Speckport !  I  never  thought  it  could  be  so  dear ! 
I  shall  Ije  with  you  in  November,  and  perhaps  I  may  say 
to  you  then  what  I  cannot  write  now.  I  am  coming  back 
a  man,  Yal ;  I  went  away  a  hot-headed,  passionate,  un- 
reasoning boy.  I  have  learned  to  be  wise,  I  hope,  and  if 
the  school  has  Jjeen  a  hard  one,  I  shall  only  remember  its 
lessons  the  longer.  I  am  coming  back  rich  ;  blessings  as 
well  as  misfortunes  do  not  come  alone.  1  have  been  left 
a  fortune — ^you  will  see  an  account  of  it  in  the  paper  I 
send  you.  Our  colonel,  a  gallant  fellow,  and  a  rich  Geor- 
gian planter,  has  remembered  me  in  his  will.  I  saved  his 
life  shortly  after  I  came  here,  almost  at  the  risk  of  my 
own,  I  believe.  They  promoted  me  for  it  at  the  time,  and 
I  thought  I  had  got  my  reward  ;  but  I  was  mistaken.  He 
died  last  week  of  a  bayonet-thrust,  and  when  his  will  was 
read,  I  found  I  was  left  thirty  thousand  dollars.  He  was 
a  childlesf)  widower,  with  no  neai*  relatives ;  so  no  one  ii 


THE     VESPER    HYMN.  ■     415 

wronged.  You  see  I  shall  not  have  to  fall  back  upon  Dr. 
Leach's  hand  on  ray  return,  and  my  motlicr  need  depend 
no  more  on  Mrs.  Wyndham's  generosity.  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  that  lady  all  the  same." 

"  I  believe  I'll  show  this  letter  to  Father  Lennard," 
said  Yalto  himself;  "he  asked  me  on  Sunday  if  I  liad 
heard  from  Charley  lately,  and  told  me  to  let'him  know 
when  I  did.  Charley  was  always  a  favorite  of  his,  since  the 
day  when  he  was  a  little  shaver  and  an  acolyte  on  the  altar," 

Mr.  Blake  was  not  the  man  to  let  grass  gi'ow  under  his 
feet  when  he  took  a  notion  in  his  head ;  so  he  started  off 
at  once,  at  a  swinging  pace,  for  the  cathedral.  The  Octo- 
ber twilight  was  cold  and  gray.  A  dreary  evening,  in 
wliich  men  went  by  with  pinched  noses  and  were  buttoned 
up  in  greatcoats,  and  women  had  vails  over  their  faces, 
and  sliivered  in  the  street — a  melancholy  evening,  speak- 
ing of  desolation,  and  decay,  and  death,  and  the  end  of  all 
things  earthly. 

Mr.  Blake,  to  whom  it  was  only  a  rawish  evening, 
strode  along,  and  reached  the  cathedral  in  the  bleak  dusk. 
The  principal  entrances  were  all  closed,  but  he  went  in 
through  a  side  door,  and  looked  into  the  side  chapel  for 
the  priest.  Not  finding  him,  he  entered  the  cathedral 
througli  one  of  tlie  transepts,  but  neither  was  Father  Len- 
nard there.  The  gray  twilight  shone  but  dimly  tlirough 
the  painted  windows,  and  the  long  and  lofty  aisles  were  very 
dim  and  shadowy.  There  was  but  one  light  in  the  great 
church — a  tiny  lamp  burning  on  the  grand  altar — a  lamp 
that  never  went  ont  by  night  or  day.  Two  or  three 
shadowy  female  figures  knelt  around  the  altar-rails  in 
silent  prayer,  and  Val  thought  one  of  them  looked  like 
Miss  Rose.  lie  knew  she  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  in 
the  twilight  here;  but  something  else  had  caught  his 
attention,  and  he  turned  away  and  went  on  tiptoe  down 
tlie  echoing  nave,  staring  up  at  the  choir.  Some  one  was 
singing  softly  there — singing  so  softly  that  it  seemed  but 
the  sighing  of  the  autumn-wind,  and  seemed  to  belong  tc 
it.  But  Val  had  a  quick  ear,  and  the  low  melancholy 
cadences  struck  him  witli  a  nameless  thrill.  What  was 
there  that  sounded  so  stnuigely  familiar  in  that  voice?  It 


416  TEE     VESPER    ETMN. 

was  a  woman's  voice — ^a  sweet,  full  soprano,  that  could 
rise  to  power  at  its  owner's  will.  But  what  did  it  remind 
him  of  ?  A  thought  flashed  through  him — a  sudden  and 
startling  thought — that  brought  the  blood  in  a  red  gush  to 
his  face,  and  then  left  him  cold  and  white.  He  softly 
ascended  the  stairs,  the  low,  mournful  voice  breaking  into 
a  sweetly-plaintive  vesper  hymn  as  he  went. 

Yal  Blake  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  a  cold 
sweat  broke  out  on  his  face.  He  paused  a  moment  be- 
fore he  entered  into  the  choir,  his  heart  beating  faster  than 
it  ever  had  beat  before.  A  woman  sat  before  the  organ, 
not  playing,  but  with  her  fingers  wandering  noiselessly 
over  the  kej's,  her  face  upraised  in  the  ghostly  light.  She 
looked  like  the  picture  of  St.  Cecilia,  ^vith  a  cloud  of 
tressed  hazy  golden  hair  falling  about  that  pale,  eal-nest, 
upraised  face.  Her  mantle  had  fallen  back — a  white 
cashmere  mantle,  edged  with  ermine  and  lined  with  blue 
satin — and  she  sung,  unconscious,  as  it  seemed,  of  all  the 
world.  Yal  Blake  stood  Uke  a  man  paralyzed — ^struck 
dumb  and  motionless — and  the  sweet  voice  sang  on : 

"Ave  Mariu!  Oh,  hear  when  we  call, 
Mother  of  Heaven,  who  is  Saviour  of  all; 
Feeble  and  fearing,  we  trust  in  thy  might ; 
In  doubting  and  darkness  thy  love  be  our  light. 
Let  us  8lee'">  on  thy  breast  while  the  niglit-taper  barns 
And  wake  in  thine  arms  when  the  morning  returns  1 
>      Ave  Maria  I  Ave  Maria!  Ave  Maria  1  audi  nosi" 

The  singing  ceased,  the  fingers  were  motionless,  and 
the  pale  face  drooped  and  sunk  down  on  the  pale  hands. 
'And  still  Yal  Blake  stood  mute,  motionless,  utterly  con- 
foimded.  For  there  before  him,  with  only  the  moonhght 
shadow  of  her  former  loveliness  left,  sat  and  sang,  not  the 
dead,  but  the  living,  Nathalie  Marsh  1 


*' NEVERMORE  1»  417 

CHAPTER  XXXY. 

QUOTH  THE  RAVEN,  '  NEVERMORE  I' " 

OW  long  Mr.  Val  Blake  stood  there,  staring  at 

that  sight  of  wonder,  neitlier  he  nor  I  ever 

knew;    but    while  it  drooped  in   a  strange, 

heartbroken  way  over  the  instrument,  and  ho 

stood  looking  at  it,  powerless  to  speak  or  move, 

a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  looking  round  he  saw 

the  pale  face  of  Paul  Wjndham.   Pale  always,  but  deadly 

white,  Mr.  Blake  saw,  in  the  spectral  October  gloaming. 

"  131ake,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  wdiisper,  that  did  not 
sound  like  Paul  Wyndham's  peculiarly  clear  and  melodious 
voice,  "  if  ever  you  were  my  friend,  be  silent  now  I  Help 
me  to  get  away  from  here  unseen." 

Some  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  truth  dawned  on  the 
slow  mind  of  Val  Blake.  Tlie  ghost  of  Nathalie  Mai-sli — 
the  invisible  and  mysterious  woman  shut  up  in  Rosebush 
Cottage — could  thty,  after  all,  be  connected,  and  was  the 
mad  mother  only  a  blind.  The  question  passed  through 
Val's  mind  in  a  vague  sort  of  way,  while  he  watched  Paul 
Wyndham  bend  over  the  drooping  ligm'e,  as  tenderly  as  a 
mother  over  the  cradle  of  her  first-born.  His  voice  too, 
had  changed  when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  was  infinitely 
gentle  and  loving. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  "yon  must  not  stay  here.  I 
have  come  to  fetch  you  home." 

She  lifted  up  her  head  at  once,  and  held  out  her  arms 
to  him,  like  a  little  child  that  wants  to  be  taken.  All  the 
pale,  misty  hair  floated  softly  back  from  her  wan  face. 
Oh !  how  altered  from  the  bright  face  Val  Blake  onco 
knew,  and  the  blue  eyes  she  lifted  to  his  face  had  a 
strange,  meaningless  light,  that  chilled  the  blood  in  the 
veins  of  the  looker-on. 

"  Yes,  take  me  away,"  she  eaid,  wearily ;  but  in  Kat'iar 
17* 


418  '  NEVERMORE  r 

lie  Mai-sli's  own   voice.      "  I  knew    you  would  comes. 

Where's  Midge  ?     I  am  cold  here." 

"  Midge  is  at  home,  my  darling.  Here  is  your  mantle 
— stand  up  while  I  put  it  on." 

She  arose ;  and  Yal  saw  she  was  dressed  in  white — a 
sort  of  white  cashmere  morning-gown,  lined  with  quilted 
blue  silk.  Mr.  Wyndham  arranged  the  long  white  mantle 
around  the  wasted  ligure,  drawing  the  hood  over  the  liead 
and  face.  Ghostly  enough  she  looked,  standing  there  in 
the  gloom ;  and  Yal  knew  she  must  have  been  dressed 
in  the  same  manner  on  the  night  she  so  startled  him  and 
Laura.  But  Mr.  Wyndham,  wlio  wore  a  long  black  cloak 
himself  these  chilly  evenings,  took  it  off  and  arranged  it 
over  her  white  robes,  effectually  concealmg  them,  as  he 
drew  her  forward. 

"  Go  down-stairs,  Blake,"  he  said,  "  a  cab  is  waiting 
outside  the  gates.  Come  with  us,  and  I  will  tell  you 
everytliing." 

Mr.  BlalvO  mechanically  obeyed.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  it  was  not  all  the  nightmare,  and  not  at  all  certain 
he  was  not  asleep  in  his  own  room,  and  dreaming  this 
singular  little  episode,  and  would  awake  presently  to  smile 
at  it  all.  He  went  down-stairs  in  silent  bewilderment, 
never  speaking  a  word,  and  hardly  able  to  think.  Natha- 
lie Marsh  was  dead — or  at  least  some  one  was  dead,  and 
buried  out  there  in  the  cemetery,  that  he  had  taken  to  be 
Nathalie  Marsh — how  then  did  she  come  to  be  walking 
down-stairs  behind  him,  supported  by  that  extraordinary 
man,  Paul  Wyndham  ? 

The  cathedral  was  quite  deserted  when  they  got  down, 
and  the  sexton  was  just  locking  it  up  for  the  night.  He 
stared  a  little  at  the  three  forms  going  by  him  ;  but  he 
was  an  pld  man,  with  sight  not  so  good  as  it  might  be, 
and  he  did  not  recognize  them.  They  met  no  one  within 
the  inclosed  grounds.  At  the  side  gate  a  cab  stood  wait- 
ing; Mr.  Blake  opened  the  door,  and  Mr.  Wyndham 
helped  in  his  silent  companion,  who  yielded  hereelf,  "  pas- 
sive to  all  changes." 

"  Come  witS  us,  Blake,"  Mr.  Wyndham  said,  aa  he 


'  NEVERMORE  r*  41« 

entered  and  seated  lii  iiself  by  the  lady.  "  Rosebush  Cot- 
tage, driver.     Make  haste !" 

l^ot  a  word  was  spoken  dming  the  drive.  The  slight 
figure  of  the  woman  lay  back  in  a  corner,  her  head  droop- 
ing against  the  side  of  the  carriage.  Paul  Wyndham  sat 
by  her,  looking  at  her  often,  but  not  addressing  her ;  and 
Mr.  Blake,  in  a  hopeless  morass  of  doubt  and  mystification, 
sat  staring  at  the  living  ghost,  and  wondering  when  he 
was  going  to  wake  from  his  dream. 

The  distance  was  short.  In  ten  minutes  they  stopped 
in  front  of  the  pretty  cottage,  from  whose  curtained 
windows  a  bright  light  shone.  The  roses  in  the  garden 
were  dead  long  ago,  and  only  gaunt  stalks  and  bare  vines 
twined  themselves,  like  ugly  brown  snakes,  where  the 
clunbing  roses  grew.  A  queer  figure  stood  at  the  gate — 
an  ugly,  dwarfed,  and  unwieldy  figure,  with  a  big  head 
set  on  no  neck  at  all,  and  a  broad,  fiorid  face,  and  little 
pin-hole  eyes.  But  the  eyes  were  big  enough  to  express 
a  great  deal  of  anxiety ;  and  she  flung  the  gate  open  and 
rushed  out  as  the  carriage  door  opened  and  Mr.  Wyndham 
got  out. 

"  Have  you  found  her  ?"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  dear !  oh, 
dear !     "Where  was  she,  now,?" 

Mr.  "Wyndham  did  not  notice  lier. 

"  Get  out,  Blake,"  he  said  ;  and  Midge  recoiled  with  a 
cry  of  consternation  at  sight  of  "Veal's  towering  form. 
Tiio  next  instant,  he  had  lifted  the  lady  out  in  his  arms, 
as  if  she  were  a  b:Ujy,  and  carried  her  within  the  gate. 
"  Take  her  into  the  house,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  1  shall 
talk  to  you  about  this  again  !" 

Midge  obeyed  meekly — "V'al  wondered  as  much  at  that 
meekness  as  at  anytliing  he  had  seen  yet — and  led  the 
passive  girlish  creature  into  the  house.  Mr.  "Wyndham 
paid  and  dismissed  the  cabman,  and  held  the  gate  open 
for  Val. 

"  Come  in,  Blake,"  he  said  gravely ;  "  the  time  has 
come  when  my  secret  can  be  no  longer  kept,  and  I  would 
sooner  tell  it  to  you  than  to  any  other  human  being  in 
existence." 


420  '' NEVERMORE  r 

"  Tell  me,"  sail  Yal,  finding  voice  for  the  first  time, 
"  is  that  feally  JSTathalie  Mai-sli  '^" 

"  She  was  Nathalie  Marsh — she  is  Nathalie  "Wyndham 
ROW.     She  is  my  wife !" 

Mr.  Blake  fairly  gasped  for  breath.    • 

"  Your  wife !"  he  exclaimed,  "  are  you  going  mad,  Mr. 
"Wyndham  ?     Olive  is  your  wife !" 

"  No,"  said  Paul  Wyndham,  with  cold  sternness,  "  she 
is  not — she  never  has  been.  The  compact  I  made  with 
her  was  a  formal  matter  of  business,  which  gave  me  the 
right  to  dwell  under  the  same  roof  with  her,  but  never 
made  me  her  husband-  She  and  I  understand  each  other 
perfectly.  Nathalie  is  my  wife — my  dear  and  cherished 
wife,  and  was  so  before  I  ever  came  to  Speckport." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Wyndham,"  said  Val,  with  gravity,  "  you 
are  a  scoundrel !" 

"  Perhaps  so.     Come  in." 

Val  Blake  took  o2  his  hat  and  •  crossed  the  threshold 
of  Rosebush  Cottage  for  the  first  time  since  it  was  in^ 
habited. 

"And  your  mother  was  only  a  myth?"  he  asked, 
as  Mr.  Wyndham  closed  and  locked  carefully  the  front 
door.  * 

"  Only  a  myth.  My  mother  is  in  Westchester  County 
yet." 

Val  asked  no  more  questions,  but  looked  around  him. 
The  hall  was  long,  with  beautiful  proof-engravings,  and 
lit  by  pendant  cbaiideUers.  There  was  a  door  to  either 
hand — Midge  came  out  of  the  one  to  the  left,  still  wear- 
ing that  anxious  face. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Mr,  Wyndham,  sternly,  "  how  did 
this  happen  ?" 

"  It  wasn't  my  fault,"  snapped  Midge,  her  usual  man- 
ner returning.  "  I  did  my  best,  and  she'd  behaved  her- 
self for  so  long,  I'd  no  idee  she  was  going  to  scud  off 
again.  The  door  wasn't  open  ten  minutes,  and  I  was  out 
in  the  kitchen  bakin'  the  pies,  and  when  I  came  back  she 
was  gone.  I  put  after  her  and  met  you,  and  I  couldn't 
help  it  now ;  so  talk's  of  no  use.  Where  did  you  find 
her?" 


"  NE  VEBMORE  /"  421 

"  In  tfie  cathedral.  She  was  speakiuff  of  it  this  inoru- 
iiinf,  and  asking  me  to  take  her  there,  so  I  knew  she  would 
make  lor  that." 

"What  made  you  fetch  him  here?"  inquired  Midge, 
poking  one  stubby  index-linger  at  Mr.  Blake. 

"  lie  saw  her  and  recognized  her  before  I  did.  Get 
out  of  the  way,  Midge,  we  are  going  in." 

Midge  went  a\vay,  snorting  to  herself,  and  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham  opened  the  door,  and  preceded  Mr.  Blake  into  the 
drawing-room  of  the  cottage.  Such  a  pretty  drawing- 
room,  lit  by  the  rosy  blaze  of  a  clear  coal-lire  in  a  grate 
of  shining  steel,  and  pendent  chandeliers  of  glittering 
glass  and  frosted  silver.  A  small,  high-ceilinged  room, 
the  wails  hung  with  white  and  gold  paperhungings,  and 
adorned  with  perfect  gems  of  art.  The  windows  were 
draped  in  blue  satin  and  white  lace,  and  there  wiis  a 
Brassels  carpet  on  the  floor,  where  violets,  and  bluebells, 
and  morning-glories  ran  wild  on  a  white  grouiid,  and 
looked  like  pale  spring  flowers  bloomhig  in  a  snow  bank. 
The  chairs  were  of  white  enameled  wood — the  legs  and 
back  touclied  up  wath  gold,  and  cushioned  in  blue  satin. 
There  were  inlaid  tables,  laden  with  superbly  bound 
books  of  beauty,  aimuals,  albums,  and  portfolios  of  en- 
gravings ;  and  a  rosewood  piano  stood  in  one  corner,  v/ith 
the  music  scattered  about.  There  was  an  open  door  to 
the  left,  loading  into  a  bed-room  fm*nished  ia  much  the 
same  stylo;  but  V^al  scarcely  looked  at  it — ail  his  atten- 
tion was  taken  by  the  white  girlish  form  lying  back  in  a 
great  carved  and  gilded  chair  in  front  of  the  Are.  AVhat 
a  wreck  she  was!  The  transparent  skin,  the  hollow 
cheeks,  the  sunken  eyes,  the  wasted  little  hands,  the 
sliadowy  figure — what  a  wreck  of  the  blonde  loveliness 
of  other  days.  Iler  head  lay  back  amon^  the  bhie  satin 
pillows,  her  hands  dropped  listless  over  tlie  arms  of  the 
chair,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  leaping  jets  of  flame, 
in  a  meaningless  stare.  She  never  turned  to  look  at  them 
whey  they  came  in ;  she  did  not  even  turn  when  Vai 
Blake  crossed  over  and  bent  above  her. 

"Nathahe,"  he  said,  a  little  tremor  in  his  voice; 
''  Nathalie,  don't  you  know  me  f 


423  '' NEYEHMORE  r 

She  lifted  her  blue  eyes  vacantly  to  his  face,  nmr- 
imired  an  inai-ticulate  eoipething,  moved  her  head  restless- 
ly, and  then  went  back  to  staring  at  the  fire.  Val  rose 
up,  white  even  to  his  lips. 

"  Wyndham,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  afraid,  while  he 
ei)oke,  to  hear  the  answer.  "Why  does  she  look  like 
that  V 

Paul  Wyndliam  was  leaning  against  the  mantel,  hjs 
head  drooping.  Now  he  lifted  it,  and  Val  saw  the  dark 
despair  that  tilled  his  eyes. 

"  Its  meaning,"  he  said,  "  has  nearly  broken  my  heart. 
If  I  have  done  wrong,  I  have  been  terribly  punislied,  and 
even  you,  Blake,  might  be  merciful  now.  My  poor  dar- 
ling's Hjind  is  gone !" 

There  was  a  pause,  a  pause  of  mute  consternation  on 
Yal's  part.  Mr.  Wyndham  bent  over  Nathalie,  with  that 
look  of  unspeakable  tenderness  that  made  his  face  some- 
thing new  to  Val — a  face  entirely  new. 

"  My  darling,  you  arc  tired,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  and 
want  to  go  to  bed.     Don't  you,  Natty?" 

The  old  name!  It  brought  a  pang  to  Val's  heart  to 
hear  it.  Paul  Wyndliani  spoke  to  her  as  he  would  have 
spoken  to  a  child  of  three  yeai-s ;  and  Val  thought  he 
would  sooner  she  were  indeed  lying  under  the  sods  in  the 
cemetery  than  see  her  as  he  saw  her  now— dead  in 
life. 

"  Yes,  Paul,"  she  said,  rising  wearily,  but  at  once. 

"  Or,  perhaps,"  Mr.  Wyndham  said,  looking  at  her 
thoughtfully,  "you  would  like  to  sing  before  you  go. 
You  told  me  the  other  day,  you  know,  you  always  slept 
better  if  you  sang  before  going  to  bed." 

"  Oh,  yes !"  Nathalie  said,  her  face  lighting  suddenly 
with  animation.     "  What  shall  I  sing,  Paul  ?" 

"  Anything  you  like,  ray  dearest." 

He  led  her  to  the  piano,  and  opened  it,  while  she  took 
her  seat  on  the  stool,  and  ran  her  tingei-s  lightly  over  the 
keys  at  random.  Val  Plake  closed  his  eves  to  listen. 
How  long— how  long  ago  it  seemed  since" he  had  heard 
Nathalie  Marsh's  melodious  voice  ringing  through  the 
cathedral-aisles!     The  thin  fingci-s  wandered   oil  into  a 


''NEVERMORE!''  423 

plaintive  little  prelude,   tliat  had   sometliing  wild   and 

inelancliolj  in  its  wailing  minor  key.     The  song  was  as 

t^adlj-sweet  as  the  air,  and  the  voice  that  sung  was  full  of 

pathos. 

*  •x-  *  *  * 

The  song  died  out  as  moumfullj  as  the  last  cadence 
of  a  funeral-hymn,  and  the  pale  singer  arose. 

"I  am  very  tired,  Paul,"  Nathalie  said,  in  a  spiritless 
sort  of  way,  "  and  I  think  my  head  is  aching.  Tell  Midge 
to  come." 

lie  rang  the  bell  and  put  his  arm  round  her  to  lead 
her  away. 

"Say  good  night  to  Mr.  Blake,  Nathalie.  You  re- 
member Val  Blake,  don't  you,  my  darling  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  but  the  smile  she  turned  upon  him 
was  meaningless,  and  as  cold  as  moonlight  in  snow. 
"  Good-night !" 

Something  was  choking  Yal's  voice,  and  his  answering 
good-night  was  very  husky.  Paul  Wyndham  led  her  into 
the  inner  room,  and  Midge  bustled  in  after  the  old 
fashion,  and  Nathalie  was  left  in  her  charge  to  be  un- 
dressed for  the  night.  Mr.  Wyndham  left  the  room  and 
returned  presently,  bearing  wine  and  cigars^ 

"  If  1  am  what  you  called  me  a  while  ago,  Blake," 
Mr.  Wyndham  said,  with  a  smile  that  had  very  much  of 
sjidnoss  in  it,  '*  there  arc  extenuating  circumstances  that 
may  lighten  my  guilt." 

"  Wrong  is  wrong,"  said  Mr  Blake,  gravely,  "  and  no 
extenuating  circnmstances  can  make  it  riglit.  You  are  a 
bigamiK-<t,  by  your  own  confession,  and  you  know  how  the 
civil  law  punishes  that." 

"  Yes,  Blake,  I  know  it,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham,  "  and, 
knowing  it,  I  have  risked  all  to  win  her,  my  poor  lost 
dai-ling  v.'ithin  that  room  !  Heaven  knows,  I  have  hardly 
had  a  day's  peace  since.  Tlie  broad  road  may  be  strewn 
with  roses,  as  preachers  say  it  is,  but  the  thorns  in  the 
Howers  sting  very  sharply  sometimes,  too." 

Mr.  Blake  made  no  reply  to  this  aphorism.  He  was 
lighting  his  cigar,  with  a  listening  face,  waiting  for  the 
story  his  companion  had  to  tell.     Midge  came  out  of  the 


424  '' NEVERMORE  r 

bed-room  while  lie  waited,  threw  more  coal  on  the  fire, 
aad  ieft  the  room.  But  still  Paul  Wyudham  did  not 
begin,  lie  was  smoking,  and  looking  thoughtfully  into 
the  red  lire  and  the  falling  cinders,  and  the  ticking  of  an 
ormolu  clock  on  the  chimnej-piece,  and  the  dreary  sigh- 
ing of  the  night-wind  without  alone  broke  the  silence. 
The  clock  stnick  eight,  and  Val  lost  patience. 

"  Well,  Wyndham,  why  wait  ?  Go  on.  I  am  waiting 
to  hear  this  most  extraordinary  affair  explained." 

"  You  all  hcie  in  Spockport  thought  IS^athalie  Mareh 
committed  suicide — did  you  not?"  said  Mr.  Wjndham, 
looking  up.  "  It  is  such  a  charitable  place  this  town  of 
yours,  antl  yom*  good  people  are  so  wonderfully  ready  to 
place  the  worst  construction  on  everything,  that  you 
never  thought  she  might  have  fallen  in  by  accident — did 
your 

"  It  looked  very  suspicions,"  said  Val.  "  Heaven 
knows  how  some  of  us  pitied  her,  poor  girl !  but 
still " 

"  But  still  you  gave  her  credit  for  suicide.  Let  me 
restore  her  character.  She  never  for  a  moment  thought 
of  self-destruction.  I  have  her  own  solemn  word  for  it. 
She  was  heart-broken, — despairing — my  own  injured  dar- 
ling ! — but  all  the  teachings  of  her  life  told  her  suicide  was 
the  only  crime  for  which  God  has  no  mercy.  She  never 
thouorht  of  suicide  on  the  night  she  wandered  down  to  the 
old  wharf.  Most  miserable  she  was.  Perhaps  the 
wretched  night  was  in  harmony  with  her  great  trouble ; 
but  she  did  not  go  there  to  look  for  death.  She  missed 
hor  footing  on  the  shmy,  rotten  plank,  and  fell  in,  and 
f r  >!n  that  moment  her  story — as  far  as  you  know  it — 
ends." 

Val  nodded.  He  was  smoking,  and  it  wafl  too  much 
trouble  to  remove  the  cigar  to  speak. 

"  She  was  saved  almost  by  a  miracle.  A  passing  boat 
heard  the  splash  and  her  cry  for  help,  and  rowed  to  the 
spot.  They  saw  her  as  she  arose,  and  saved  her,  and  one 
man  on  board  recognized  her.  The  man's  name  was  Cap- 
tain Locksley.     Do  you  remember  it  V 

"  Locksley  I"  cried  Val.  "  Captain  Frank  Locksley  of  the 


"  NEVERMORE  /"  425 

*  Southern  Cross?'  Know  him?  Yes,  as  well  as  I  know 
von  I  lie  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  NathaUe, 
liiinself."' 

"  Yes,  I  IcDow.  He  recognized  her,  and  would  have 
roturned  with  her  to  the  shore;  but  she  positively  refused 
to  go.  She  would  die,  she  cried  out,  if  she  did  not  get 
i  vay  from  this  horrible  place.  Captain  Locksley  took  lier 
a  board  of  his  ship.  Tliere  was  a  woman  there,  the  wife 
>\  tha  steward,  and  she  took  charge  of  the  poor,  deranged 
girl.  Captiun  Locksley  sailed  that  niglit.  lie  v«ras  ofl:  on 
a  three-years'  voyage ;  but  on  his  way  he  was  to  touch  at 
New  York.  The  evening  before  they  reached  that  city, 
he  made  an  offer  of  his  hand  to  the  poor  girl  he  had  saved, 
lie  knew  her  story.  He  loved  her  and  pitied  her ;  but 
she  refus(Hl.  She  only  wanted  to  be  away  from  Speck- 
port.  She  would  remain  in  New  York.  One  place  was 
as  good  as  another,  and  a  great  city  tlie  best  of  all ;  but 
her  Ittt  wa3  dust  and  ashes.  She  would  never  marry,  she 
told  him.  Captain  Locksley  had  a  cousin,  the  wealthy 
manager  of  a  fjishionable  Broadway  theater,  and,  as  a  fav- 
or, the  manager  consented  to  receive  Nathalie  into  his 
coi-ps.  Her  role  was  a  very  simple  one — walking  lady  at 
first,  coming  on  oily  to  stare  at  the  audience  at  lirst.  But 
my  poor  girl's  beauty,  though  the  shadow  only  of  the 
brightness  that  had  been,  made  her  rise.  She  took  minor 
parts,  and  they  made  her  sing  when  thev  found  what  a 
superb  voice  she  possessed.  Her  voice,  the  manager  told 
me  once,  might  make  her  fortune — at  least  it  would  have 
made  the  fortune  of  any  other  woman ;  but  my  darling 
had  lost  life,  and  with  it  all  ambition.  She  never  would 
be  a  good  actress,  but  the  audience  looked  at  her  a  great 
deal ;  and  the  mournful  melody  of  her  voice,  whether  she 
talked  or  sang,  had  a  charm  for  all.  It  paid  the  manager ; 
60  he  kept  her,  and  doled  out  her  weekly  pittance,  and  she 
took  it  uncomplainingly.  I  have  sometimes  wondered  since 
how  it  was  no  one  irom  S})eekport  ever  saw  and  recog- 
nized her;  but,  I  daro  say,  if  they  did,  they  would  merely 
set  it  down  as  an  odd  chance  resemblance.  They  were  all 
so  certain  of  her  death,  and  then  the  false  name  and  the 
disguising  stage-dresses  helped  to  baffle  them.    It  was  at 


426  '' NEVERMORE  n' 

the  theater  I  firet  met  lier.  They  took  my  draraas  when 
I  turned  dramatist,  and  I  was  always  there.  She  attracted 
mo  from  the  beginning.  Slie  interested  me  strongly  the 
first  time  I  saw  her,  and  I  found  myself  pitying  her  some- 
how without  knowing  anything  about  her.  I  could  not  cease 
thinking  of  her  after.  The  pale  face  and  mournful  blue 
eyes  haunted  me  wherever  I  went.  I  found  out  she  was 
called  Miss  Johnson,  and  that  she  lodged  in  a  shabby  house 
in  a  shabby  strecjt ;  and  that  was  all  any  one  heard.  But  ui 
my  own  knowledge  1  knew  she  was  good  and  fair,  laulthat 
great  sorrov.',  not  sin,  had  darkened  her  young  life.  Why 
\^  was  I  loved  her,  I  never  could  tell.  It  was  my  fate,  I 
suppose ;  for  ray  straggles  were  vain,  and  only  left  me 
more  helplessly  entangled.  The  manager  laughed  at  me ; 
my  friends  talked  of  acts  of  lunacy  and  genteel  private 
lunatic  asylums  for  me;  but  it  was  all  useless.  1  loved 
lier,  and  was  not  to  bo  laughed  out  <»f  it,  and  one  night 
the  truth  broke  from  me.  I  begged  her  to  tell  me  who 
sac  was  and  to  bocume  my  wife ;  but  she  refused.  She 
refused,  Blake,  to  do  either ;  but  she  was  very  gentle  and 
womanly  saying  the  cruel  words.  She  was  very  grateful 
to  me,  she  said,  my  poor  dear!  but  ehe  could  not  be  un- 
just enough  to  take  me  at  my  word.  The  fancy  for  her 
would  soon  leave  me.  She  was  not  worthy  to  be  the  wife 
oi'  any  good  man.  i  must  forget  her.  I  must  never 
speak  to  her  like  this  again.  Blake,  I  went  home  that 
night  in  a  sort  of  despair.  I  hated  and  despised  inyselt 
for  iny  ]>itiful  weakness.  I  tried  to  conquer  myself,  and 
failcvl  miserably,  I  could  not  stay  away  tVom  the  theater. 
I  c-ouid  not  forget  her.  I  could  not  do  anything  I  ought 
to  do.  1  went  to  the  house  where  she  lodged,  and  found 
out  all  tiiey  knew  about  her  there.  It  was  very  little; 
but  it  Y.';is  all  good  I  made  the  manager  tell  me  again 
wliat  h'.j  cousin.  Captain  Locksley,  had  told  hira  of  her, 
and  1  ascertained  that  Captain  Locksley  was  an  honorable 
and  truthful  man.  He  had  said  she  had  undergone  a 
great  deal  of  trouble,  and  had  met  witli  heavy  reverse  of 
fortune,  but  that  she  w;is  the  best  and  purest  of  beings, 
and  he  trusted  hU  coujin  woulj  always  be  her  true  friend. 
He  told  him  he  had  long  loved  her,  and  that  he  had  asked 


'' NEVERMORE  r  427 

her  to  be  his  wife,  a.id  she  liad  refused.  I  knew  tnerc- 
fore,  there  wjis  notlii!i<r  wo,-se  than  worldly  misfortune  in 
the  past  hfe  of  the  woman  I  had  loved.  Once  acrain  1 
sought  her  out,  and  ijuplored  her  to  leave  her''  hai-d 
life  and  be  my  wife,  kecpincr  J,ei-  jxist  life  secret  if  she 
chose  ;  and  once  again  f  was  refused. 

"After  that  second   relusal,"   Mr.    AVyndham    said, 
throwing  his  smoked-out  cigar  in  the  lire,  and  lighting  an- 
otlier,  "  I  gave  up  hope  entirely.    There  was  such  a  steady, 
intlexible   resolution  on  her  poor,  pale,  worn  face,  that  a 
lespairing  conviction   of  the   uselessness  of   all  further 
attempts  catne  upon  me.     Still  I  could  not  go  away — 1 
despised  myself  for  my  pitiful  weakness— but  1  could  not, 
Bhike,  I   could   not !     I    loved    her,  and   1  wa!5  a  vreak, 
ineso'iite  coward,  and  lingered  about  the  theater  only  to 
get  a  word  from  her,  a  look  at  her,  iis  she  went  past,  or 
follow  her  at  a  distance  through  the  city  streets,  to  see  that 
she  got  safely  home.     I  despaii-ed,  but  1  could  not  l!y, 
AtuI  one  cold  March'morning,  as  1  sat  at  the  window  of 
iny  hotel,  staring  dreamily  out,  she  passed  by;  trying  to 
lix  my  thoughts  on  the  manuscript  before  me,  and  unable 
to  think  of  aifything  but  the  pale  actress,  a  waiter  came  in 
and  iiamled  me  a  letter.     It  was  a  very  large  letter,  in  a 
strange  female  hand  I  had  never  seen  before ;  but  1  knew 
it  was  from  her — my  dai-ling !     I  tore  off  the  envelope ; 
it  contained   half  a  dozen  closely-written  sheets,  and  was 
signed  "iS^athalie  Marsh."     I  knew  the  actress  only  as 
Miss  Johnson  ;  but  I  never  thought  it  was  her  real  name. 
1  knew  now  what  it  was.     It  was  a  very  long  letter ;  she 
told  me  where  she  came  from,  and  why  she  was  here,  an 
actress.     She  told  me  her  whole  story ;  her  sad,  pitiful 
story  of  wrong  and  suffering ;  the  fortune  she  had  lost ; 
the  brother  wrongfully  condemned ;  and  the  treachery — 
the  false,  cruel,  shameful  treachery — of  the  man  she  had 
iovcd  and  trusted.     She  told  me  all,  in  a  simple,  trathfid, 
earnest  way  that  went  to  my  heart ;  and  then  she  told  me 
her  reasons  for  telling  it.     I  Wiis  her  only  friend,  she  said. 
I  had  always  been  good  and  kind  to  her — my  poor,  little, 
forlorn  lamb  ! — and  she  trusted  and  believed  in  me.     She 
did  not  . jve  me ;  she  never  could  io^e  any  one  again ;  but 


428  '' NEVERMORE  r 

slie  honored  and  esteemed  me,  and  if  I  could  be  content 
with  that,  she  would  be  my  wife — ^faithful  and  true  until 
death — on  one  condition." 

Paul  Wyndham  paused.  He  had  been  gazing  dreamily 
into  tlie  lire  whilst  talking,  but  now  he  looked  hesitatingly 
at  Val  Blake. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  go  on,"  he  said,  "  without  in- 
volving others,  whom  I  have  no  right  to  name,  but  I 
must,  I  suppose ;  there  is  no  alternative  after  the  discov- 
ery you  have  made  to-night.  Another  had  become  pos- 
sessed of  the  fortune  that  should  have  been  hei-s  ;  a  fortune 
that  Avas  hers  by  every  law  of  right  and  justice.  Another, 
who  had  no  claim  upon  it,  except,  perhaps,  that  of  mere 
chance — and  the  new  heiress  had  been  a  fellow-lodger  of 
hei"S  in  Minetta  street.  She  was  young  and  handsome, 
and  had  been  a  lady.  I  knew  her  by  sight,  for  she  had 
accompanied  my  darling  often  to  the  theater.  She  would 
go  to  Speckport ;  she  would  possess  the  thousands  tliat 
should  have  been  my  Nathalie's — ^the' fatal  thousands  for 
which  her  heart  had  been  broken,  her  young  life  ruined. 
She  would  be  honored  and  flattered  and  happy ;  she  would 
marry,  ]3erhaps,  the  very  man  who  had  so  wronged  her- 
self, lie  was  a  notorious  fortune-hunter ;  she  was  sure 
he  would  be  a.t  her  feet  in  a  month,  and  was  almost  equal- 
ly sure  he  would  be  accepted.  SJie  could  not  endure  the 
thought — not  that  she  loved  him  now — that  had  all  gone 
long  ago ;  but  she  wantod  to  baflle  him,  to  make  him  suf- 
fer as  he  had  made  her  suffer,  and  to  possess  after  all  a 
portion  of  the  wealth  which  should  have  been  all  hers. 
She  would  be  my  wife,  she  said,  if  I  would  bring  this 
about.  She  knew  a  secret  in  the  life  of  this  new  heiress 
that  placed  her  completely  in  her  power,  and  she  confided 
that  secret  to  me.  She  would  be  my  wife  as  soon  as  I 
pleased,  if  I  would  only  help  her  in  this  scheme — if,  after 
our  marriage,  I  would  go  to  Speckport,  compel  the  heiress 
into  a  formal  union  with  myself  that  should  mean  nothing 
but  a  business  compact  on  either  side,  and  so  batHe  Cap- 
tain Cavendish,  and  win  for  my  lawful  wife  after  all  the 
fortune  that  was  hers  by  right.  You  stare,  Blake;  it 
sounds  very  extraordinary  and  improbable,  but  it  is  the 


'' NEVERMORE  r-  429 

simple  trutli,  nevertheless,  and  I  saw  no  reason  to  see  v.liy 
it  could  not  be  carried  out.  The  secret  I  held  placed  the 
heiress  utterly  in  my  power  and  would  force  her  to  comply 
with  my  every  wish.  Mind,  Blake,  it  was  not  the  sort  of 
secret  that  causes  divorce  cases;  it  was  a  crime  committed,* 
no  doubt;  a  crime  of  falsehood  and  ambition,  not  of 
shame,  else  that  woman  at  lledmon  would  never  for  one 
poor  instant,  under  any  temptation  whatever,  have  borne 
my  name. 

"I  read  the  strange  letter  over  a  half  a  dozen  times, 
and  Val,  old  boy,  I  consented.  You  don't  need  to  tell 
me  how  miserably  weak  and  despicable  it  was.  I  know 
it  all,  and  knew  it  then  just  as  well.  But  I  want  you  to 
think  of  me  at  ray  best.  If  the  heiress  had  been  a  good 
woman,  I  would  have  lain  down  and  died  sooner  than 
ui:iturb  her;  Ijut  1  knew  she  was  not.  I  knew  she  was  a 
bad,  bold,  crafty,  ambitious  creature,  without  a  heart; 
with  only  a  cold,  calculating  brain,  capable  of  committing 
a  great  crime  for  her  own  ends;  and  1  had  no  pity  for 
her.  1  consented,  foj*  1  loved  my  poor,  pale  girl  with  a 
passionate  devotion  you  never  can  realize,  and  felt  all  her 
wrongs  burning  in  my  own  breast,  and  longed  to  take 
hem  upon  myself  and  go  forth  and  avenge  her.  I  did 
not  know  then,  as  I  do  now,  that  it  was  a  diseased  brain 
that  prompted  that  letter.  I  did  not  know  that  reason  had 
left  her  throne,  with  that  constant  brooding  on  one  theme, 
and  that  my  love  was  mad  when  she  asked  me  to  connnit 
a  crime.  1  did  not  know.  I  wrote  her  a  long  answer, 
promising  anything,  everything,  if  she  would  be  my  wife. 
My  ])oor  girl !     My  poor,  poor  Nathalie  I" 

Mr.  Blake  sat  staring  stoically  at  the  coals,  making  no 
comment  whatever  on'  anything  he  heard,  even  when 
Paul  Wyndham  made  that  pause,  with  a  face  full  of 
tender  pity  and  love. 

''  We  were  married,  Val,"  he  said,  looking  up  again, 
"  and  the  month  tliat  followed  was  the  happiest  I  ever 
knew.  Our  marriage  was  very  recent,  and  I  took  my 
darling  on  a  Southern  tour,  hoping  that  would  make  her 
forget  the  past  and  be  happy.  But  it  did  not.  Nothing 
could  ever  make  her  happy,  she  said,  but  seeing  retribu- 


it30  • '  NE  FEIiJfORB  P' 

tion  fall  on  the  unjust,  and  returning  to  her  native  town. 
Not  openly,  that  was  out  of  the  question — but  in  secret, 
wJierj  she  could  know  for  hereelf  that  her  wrongs  liad 
baon  avenged.  So  I  left  her  in  New  York,  and  cain>] 
hji-c,  and,  Blake,  you  know  the  rest.  I  did  frustrate  that 
!)-i;l  man,  of  whom  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  since  he  is 
do-id.  1  did  marry  the  heiress,  or  we  went  througli  tlie 
ceremony  that  our  friends  took  to  be  such.  We  under- 
stood each  other  perfectly  from  the  first.  I  found  her  pre- 
cioely  what  I  had  thought  her — a  bold,  ambitious  woman, 
reveling  in  wealth  that  was  the  birthright  of  another : 
ready  to  marry  a  man  for  whom  she  did  not  care  a  jot. 
because  she  hoped  he  would  some  day  place  a  coronet  on 
her  head,  I  had  little  pity  for  sncli  a  woman,  and  be- 
sides, I  was  bound  by  a  solemn  promise  to  my  dear  one, 
who  never  would  see  me  again  if  I  failed.  I  married  the 
heiress  of  Redmon,  and  had  a  legal  right  to  share  the 
wealth  that  should  have  been  all  my  own  true  wife's.  I 
purchased  this  cottage — I  brought  Nathalie  here — I  se- 
cured the  services  of  her  faithful  old  servant,  and  Speck- 
port  thought  it  was  my  sick  mother  ! 

"  Very  slowly  some  dim  shadow  of  the  truth  came  into 
my  mind  —very  slowly — ^r  I  turned  cold  with  horror 
only  at  the  thought.  Her  raind  was  going — I  saw  it 
now — and  the  horror  and  anguish  and  despair  of  that  dis- 
covery is  known  only  to  Heaven  and  myself.  1  had  been 
so  happy  in  spite  of  all — happy  in  this  cottage  with  my 
darling  wife — and  now  my  punishment  was  coming,  and 
was  heavier  than  I  could  bear.  My  own  act  brought  on 
the  crisifi.  1  was  always  urging  her  to  let  me  take  her 
out — [  knew  it  would  do  her  good ;  but  she  had  such  a 
.Iroail  of  discovery  that  I  never  could  persuade  her.  You 
remember  the  Sunday  you  saw  us  at  the  cathedral.  She 
had  (jften  said  she  would  like  to  go  there,  and  that  day  I 
persuaded  licr  to  go,  to  hear  the  popuJ>r  preacher.  The 
scrr.ion  was  a  fearful  one — ^you  recollect  it — and  it  com- 
pleteii  the  work  remorse  and  suffering  had  begun.  My 
wife  was  a  hopeless  lunatic  from  that  day.  O  my  love  1 
ray  love!  surely  your  punishment  was  greater  than  your 
Bin !" 


''N EVERMORE  r  40J 

Val  did  not  speak.  The  white  anguish  on  Paul 
Wyndhain's  face  was  bojond  all  wordy  consolation. 

"It  was  alter  that  she  took  to  wandenng  out.  She 
'.vas  liannted  by  one  idea  now — the  sin  she  had  committed 
against  Olive  ;  anl  tormented  by  a  ceaseless  desire  toiind 
lier  ont,  and  kneel  at  her  feet  for  forgiveness.  She  wan- 
dered to  the  Redmon  road  on  the  night  you  saw  her  first, 
with  some  snch  idea,  and  tied  in  terror  at  Laura's  scream. 
Midge  had  followed  and  found  her,  and  led  her  home. 
From  that  time,  Midge  had  to  watch  her  ceaselessly  to 
keep  her  in  ;  but  sometimes,  in  spite  of  all,  she  would 
make  her  way  out.  She  went  to  the  cemetery  to  see  her 
own  grave,  poor  ciiild  !  and  Midge  found  her  there,  too  ; 
she  went  to  the  cathedral  this  evening  in  the  Siimc  waj'. 
All  the  old  familiar  places  drew  her  to  them  with  an  ir- 
resistible power  of  attraction,  and  I  knew  this  discovery 
must  come,  sooner  or  later.  I  am  deeply  thankfr.l  you 
were  the  first  to  make  it,  for  I  can  trust  you,  dear  old 
Val  !  I  dare  not  call  in  medical  service,  but  I  know  her 
case  is  quite  hopeless.  She  is  never  otherwise  than  gentle 
and  patient — she  is  like  a  little  child,  and  I  know  reason 
has  gone  forever.  Blake,  I  know  I  have  done  wrong.  I 
know  I  have  deserved  this,  but  it  breaks  my  heart !" 

"  And  this  is  the  end  of  your  story,"  said  Val,  looking 
at  him  with  a  stony  face. 

"This  is  the  end — a  pitiful  story  of  weakness  and 
wronw-doing,  isn't  it  V 

"Yes,"  said  Val,  rising,  and  flinging  liis  smoked-out 
cigar  in  the  fire,  "  it  is.  A  bad  and  cruel  story  as  ever  I 
heard.  A  story  I  never  should  have* given  you  the  credit 
of  being  the  hero  of,  Paul  Wyndham.  You  have  profaned 
a  holy  rite — you  have  broken  the  lav/s  of  God  ond  man-  -• 
you  have  committed  a  felony,  for  wiiich  lif>long  im- 
prisonment is  the  penalty.  You  are  a  bigamist,  sir.  Iho 
laws  of  this  matter-of-fact  land  recognize  no  roinantic 
glossing  over  of  facts.  Yon  have  married  two  wives — 
that  humbug  about  one  marriage  meaning  nothing,  being 
only  a  business  arrangement,  is  only  bosh.  You  are  a 
bigamist,  Mr.  Wyndham,  and  you  cannot  expect  me  to 
hoodwink  your  crime  from  the  eyes  oi  the  laud." 


433  ''NEVERMORE!^ 

"JiJ'o,"  said  Mr.  Wyndham,  bitterly,  "I  expect 
nothing.  You  will  turn  Khadamantlius,  and  have  justice, 
though  the  heavens  fall,  I  dare  say.  You  will  publish 
my  misdoings  on  the  house-tops,  and  at  the  strect-cornere. 
It  will  be  a  rare  treat  for  Speckport,  and  Mr.  Val  Blake 
will  awake  all  at  once,  and  find  hunself  famous !" 

Mr.  Blake  listened  with  the  same  face  of  stone. 

"  I  will  do  what  is  right  and  above-board,  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham.  I  will  have  no  act  or  part  in  any  plot  as  long  as  I 
live.  The  only  one  I  ever  had  a  hand  m  was  that  affair 
of  Cherrie's,  and  I  was  sorry  enough  for  that  afterward. 
If  Nathalie  Marsh  were  my  sister,  I  could  scarcely  care 
more  for  her  than  I  do  ;  but  I  tell  you  I  would  sooner 
know  she  was  dead  and  buried  out  there,  than  living,  and 
as  she  is.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Wyndham,  for  1  had 
some  faith  in  you  ;  but  it  is  out  of  all  reason  to  ask  me  to 
conceal  such  a  crime  as  this." 

"  I  ask  for  nothing,"  Paul  Wyndham  said,  more  in 
soiTow  than  in  anger.  "I  am  entu'ely  at  your  mercy. 
Heaven  knows  it  does  not  matter  much  what  becomes  of 
me,  but  it  is  hard  to  think  of  her  name — my  poor  dear ! — 
dragged  through  the  slime  of  the  streets." 

Perhaps  val  Blake  was  sorry  for  him  in  his  secret 
heart — for  it  was  a  kindly  heart,  too,  was  Val's — but  his 
face   did  not  show  it.     He  lifted  his  hat,  and  turned 

"  I  shall  be  as  merciful  as  is  compatible  with  justice," 
he  said  ;  "  before  I  make  this  matter  known  to  the  proper 
authorities,  you  shall  be  warned.  But  there  are  othei's 
who  must  be  told  to-moiTow.  She  must  have  medical 
advice  at  once,  for  she  is  evidently  dying  by  inches  ;  her 
mother  must  know,  and — "  His  hand  was  on  the  lock 
of  the  door  as  he  stopped,  and  faced  round — "  and  the 
woman  you  have  wronged.  As  to  your  secret  power 
over  her,  yon  need  not  make  such  a  mystery  of  it.  I 
know  what  it  is  !" 

"  You !"  Paul  W}'ndham  said,  turning  his  powerful 
gray  eyes  upon  him.     "  You,  Blake !     Imj^ossible !" 

Mr.  Blake  nodded  intelligently. 

"  She  is  not  the  true  heiress !     Ah  1  I  see  I  am  right ! 


'' NEVERMORE  r  438 

I  have  had  reason  to  think  so  for  some  time  past ;  but  I 
never  was  sure  until  to-night.  Oh,  yes !  I  know  the 
secret,  and  I  know  more.  I  think  I  can  put  my  hand  on 
one  who  is  the  heiress,  before  to-morrow's  sun  goes 
down." 

There  flashed  through  Paul  Wyndham's  mind  what 
Olive  had  said,  in  that  iii-st  stormy  interview  they  had 
held,  about  the  true  heiress,  who  had  made  over  to  her 
the  true  estate.     What  if  it  had  been  true  ? 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked.  "You  cannot!  She  is 
dead !" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  She  is  worth  half  a  dozen  dead 
people  yet !  I  shall  see  her  to-morrow,  and  find  out  if  I 
am  not  right." 

"  See  her  to-morrow  !     Then  she  is  in  Speckport  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  she  is !  I  will  visit  the  other  one,  too — 
Ilan-iet,  you  know.     She  must  be  told  at  once." 

"  You  know  her  name !     Blake,  who  has  told  you  all 

this?" 

"  Not  now !"  said  Yal,  opening  the  door ;  "  some  other 
time  I  will  tell  you.  You  are  at  Uberty  to  make  what  use 
of  your  time  you  please.  You  have  between  tliis  and  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  shall  not  make  use  of  it  to  fly,"  said  Mr.  Wyndhara, 
coolly ;  "  whatever  comes,  I  shall  stay  hero  and  meet  it. 
I  have  only  one  request  to  make— be  as  tender  with  that 
poor  girl  at  Eedmon  as  you  can.  I  do  not  think  she  is 
happy,  and  I  believe  slie  is  a  far  better  woman  than  I 
took  'her  to  be.  I  am  sorry  for  tlie  wrong  I  have  done 
her,  but  it  is  too  late  in  the  day  for  all  that  now.  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  spare  me,  but  do  spare  her  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  add  to  the  truth— be  sure  of  it.     (rood 

night !"  . ,    1    1  .  J 

"Good  night!"  Paul  Wyndham  said,  locking  and 
closing  the  door  after  him,  and  returning  to  the  room 
thcv  had  left.  So  it  was  all  over,  and  the  discovery  he 
liad  dreaded  and  foreseen  all  aloiig,  had  come  at  kist.  It 
w:us  all  over,  and  the  scheme  of  his  life  was  at  an  end 
lie  had  been  happy  here— oh,  very,  ver}'  happy!  witli 
the  wife  he  loved^  and  who  had  trusted  and  clung  to  him, 
18 


434  DRIFT  ma     OUT. 

as  a  timid  child  does  to  a  father,  flow  often  he  had  sat 
in  this  \erj  room,  reading  to  her  dreamy,  misty  Shelley, 
or  Byron,  or  Owen  Meredith,  and  she  had  sat  on  a  low 
stool  at  his  feet,  her  blue  eyes  looking  up  in  his  face,  her 
hazy  gold  hair  rippliag  loose  about  her,  like  a  cloud  of 
sunlight,  or  with  that  golden  head  pillowed  on  his  knee, 
while  she  dropped  asleep  in  the  blue  summer  twilight, 
listening.  Yes,  he  liad  been  unspeakably  happy  there, 
while  some  one  had  sat  unthought  of  at  Iledmon,  eating 
out  her  own  heart  in  her  grand  miser;ible  solitude.  lie 
had  been  \evy  happy  here  ;  but  it  was  all  over  now,  and 
his  life  seemed  closing  bltick  around  him,  like  a  sort  of 
iron  shroud.  It  would  all  pass,  and  he  would  exist  for 
years,  perhaps,  yet,  and  eat,  and  diink,  and  ^leep,  and  go 
on  with  the  dull  routine  of  existence,  but  Iiis  life  was  at 
an  end.  He  had  sinned,  and  tlie  retribution  that  always 
follows  sin  in  this  world,  or  the  next,  had  overtaken  him. 
He  had  been  happy  here,  but  it  was  gone  forever— never- 
more to  be — nevermore — nevermore ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

DRIFTUJ^G   OITr. 

[jX  Mrs.  Major  Wheatly's  pretty  drawing-room 
in  their  new  house  in  Golden  Row  sat  Miss 
Yv'innie  Ro?e,  the  governess.  She  is  dressed 
in  slight  mourning,  very  simple,  a??  becomes  a 
governess,  but  fitting  the  small,  hght  figure 
with  exquisite  neatness,  and  she  is  counting  time  for  Miss 
Wheatly,  wliosits  strumming  out  her  music-lesson  at  the 
piano.  Mrs.  Wheatly  lies  on  a  sofa  at  the  wmdow,  dawd- 
ling over  a  novel  and  looking  listlessly  at  the  passers-by, 
and  wishing  some  one  would  call.  She  started  up,  think- 
ing her  mental  prayer  wad  granted,  as  a  servant  entered 


DRIFTING     OUT.  435 

with  a  card.     But  it  Avas  not  for  her.     It  was  handed  to 
the  governess. 

"  Mr.  Blake  !"  said  Miss  Eose,  hesitatingly.  «  This 
cannot  bo  for  me,  Margaret." 

"  O  yes'm,  it  is !  lie  requested  particularly  to  see  Misa 
Kose." 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Blake  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Wheatly.  «  Wliat 
can  he  want  with  you,  I  wonder?" 

Miss  Rose  smiled  as  she  got  up. 

"  I  am  sure  I  (ipn't  know.  I  may  go  down,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,  my  dear  !"  said  Mrs.  Wheatly,  yawn- 
ing. ''  And  ask  him  if  he  has  heard  from  his  sister 
lately.  Stop  your  strumming,  Louisa,  it  makes  my  head 
ache." 

Mr.  Blake  was  sitting  in  what  was  called  the  morning- 
roojn,  and  shook  liands  with  Miss  Hose  when  she  came  in. 
But  how  strangely  gi'ave  he  was  1  What  could  he  want 
with  her?  Her  heart  fluttered  a  little  as  she  looked  at 
him. 

"  My  dear  young  lady!"  he  began,  with  an  ominously 
grave  face,  "it  is  very  serious  business  that  brings  mo 
here  this  morning.  Are  you  quite  sure  no  one  can  over- 
hear us?" 

Awful  beginning !  The  little  governess  turned  pale 
as  she  lislened. 

"  JN'o  one,"  she  faltered.  "  AVhat  is  it  you  mean,  Mr. 
Blake?" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
a  young  lady  of  ten  years,  "don't  look  so  frightened.^  I 
Avant  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  you  must  pardon  me  if  it 
sounds  impertinent.  Is  your  name,  your  family-name, 
really  Hose  ?" 

The  governess  uttered  alow  cry,  and  covered  her  face 

with  both  hands.  " 

"  I  am  answered,"  said  Val.  "  Your  name  is  Ilender- 
gon— Olive  Henderson;  and  you  should  be  lieiressof 
Pwedmon,  instead  of— of  the  person  whose  name  is  Harriet, 
and  who  reigns  there  now.  Oh,  my  dear  young  k^dy  how 
is  this  ?     Is  there  no  one  in  the  world  to  be  trusted  J 


436  DRTFTmO     OUT. 

Slie  rose  from  her  seat  suddenly,  and  sank  on  her 
knees  at  his  feet  witli  a  gusliing  sob. 

"  I  have  done  wrong,"  she  cried,  "  for  all  deceit  is 
wrong  ;  and  though  Itose  is  my  name,  it  is  not  my  father's. 
But  oh,  Mr.  Bhike !  if  you  only  knew  all,  I  don't  think 
you  would  blame  me  so  much.  It  was  not  I  who  changed 
it.  It  has  been  tlie  name  by  whicli  I  have  gone  for  yeai's, 
and  I  could  not  resume  my  rightful  one  without  suspi- 
cion and  explanation  that  involved  the  honor  of  the  dead  ; 
and  so  I  was  silent,  ^o  one  was  wronged  by  it — no  one 
in  the  wide  world ;  and  I  did  not  think  it  so  very 
wrong." 

She  sobbed  out  as  she  spoke,  in  a  sudden  outbreak  of 
distress.     Val  stooped  kindly  and  raised  her  up. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  only  doubted  you  for  a  moment. 
You  are  too  good  to  willfully  deceive  any  one  to  tlieir 
harm.  But  you  must  calm  yourself  and  listen  to  me  ;  for 
right  must  be  done  to  alL  Who  is  that  woman  at  Red- 
mon  ?     Is  she  your  stepsister  ?" 

The  governess's  only  reply  was  to  clasp  her  hands 
piteously. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Blake,  what  have  you  done?  How  have 
you  found  this  out?  Oh,  I  am  so  sony,  so  very  sorry; 
for  you  don*t  know  the  misery  you  will  make !" 

"  Misery  !     Do  you  mean  to  youreelf  ?" 

"  ISTo,  no !  but  to  her.  Poor  Harriet !  Oh,  Mr.  Blake, 
who  can  have  told  you  this  ?" 

"  Sit  down  and  calni  yourself,  my  dear  Miss  Rose, 
and  you  shall  hear  all.  T)o  you  recollect  one  day,  very 
shortly  after  your  return  here,  visiting  Miss  Hendei-son  at 
her  cottage  down  the  street  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes." 

''  You  and  she  had  along  conversation  in  her  chamber 
that  day,  part  of  which  was  overheard.  Miss  Catty  Clow- 
rie  was  in  tlie  house  at  the  time,  and  she  overheard — 
how,  I  don't  pretend  to  say  ;  but  she  heard  enough  to  ex- 
cite her  suspicions  that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be.  She 
heard  you  addressed  as  '  Oily',  and  heard  you  call  Miss 
Ileudei'son  '  Harriet.'  She  saw  her  down  on  her  knees 
before  you,   pleading  desparately   for  something,   Miss 


DRIFTING     OUT.  43.; 

Clowrie  conld  not  (juite  make  out  what ;  and  she  heard 
you  promise  to  comply  with  her  request,  on  condition  ol 
her  paym^  over  to  Mrs.  Mareh  a  certain  annuity.     All 
this  looked  very  odd,  you  know ;  and  Miss  Clowrie,  wlio 
IS  a  good  deal  of  an  attorney,  they  tell  me,  scented  a 
criminal  case.     She  consulted  with  her  father  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  was* overheard  by  her  brother  Jacob,  who  is  in 
my   office.     Jake  communicated  the  story  next  raorniii" 
in  confidence  to  Bill  Blair,  and  Bill  related  it  in  confi^ 
deuce  to  me.     I  cross-questioned  Jake,  and  got  out  of 
him  all  he  knew,  and  then  pooh-poohed  the  story,  and 
told  them  Catty  must  have  been  dreaming.     But  the  an- 
nuity was  paid,  and  I  suspected  the  whole  thing  at  once. 
It  was  none  of  my  business,  however,  so  I  held  my  tongue  ; 
and  as  Mr.  and  Miss  Clowrie  Jiadn't  facts  enough  to  go 
upon,  they  held  theirs,  too,  and  waited  for  something Ito 
turn  up.     Tiiere  is  the  story  to  you,  Miss  Kose  ;  and  now 
why  on  earth,  if  you  are  the  true  Olive  Ilendei-son,  have 
you   slaved  here  as  a  governess,  while  you  let  another, 
who  had  no  right,  usurp  your  place  and  wealth  ?" 
She  governess  lifted  her  head  with  some  spirit. 
"  It  is  no  slavery,  Mr.  Blake  !      They  are  very  kind 
to  me  here,  Mr.  Blake,  and  I  have  every  reason  to   be 
happy  ;   and  Harriet  has  a  right,  a  strong  right,  which  I 
never  mean  to  dispute,  to  possess  whatever  belongs  to 
me.     She  is  no  usurper,  for  I  have  made  over  to  her  fully 
and  sincerely  the  legacy  bequeathed  to  Philip  Henderson. 
"  I  understand.     You  are  very  generous  and  self-eacri- 
ficing,  Miss  Kose — but  still  she  has  no  right  there,  and — " 
But  Miss  Rose  interrupted,  clasping  her  hands  in  passion- 
ate appeal. 

''  Oh,  j\Ir.  Blake,  what  are  yon  going  to  do  ?  Oh,  I 
entreat  of  yon,  if  you  have  any  regard  for  mc  or  poor 
*  Harriet,  not  to  reveal  what  you  know.  Indeed,  indeed,  I 
don't  want  it !  What  should  I  do  with  half  that  money  ? 
I  have  everything  I  want,  and  am  as  happy  as  the  day  ia 
long.  Do  3-0U  think  I  could  ever  be  happy  again  if  I 
turned  poor  Harriet  out ;  do  you  think  I  could  ever  live 
in  that  grand  place,  knowing  I  had  made  her  miserable 
for  life?    Oh,  n/),  Ml-.  Blake  I    You  are  good  and  kmd- 


438  DEIFTINQ     OUT. 

hearted,  and  would  not  make  any  one  unhappy,  I  know  ? 
Then  let  things  go  on  as  they  are ;  and  don't  say  anything 
about  this  ?" 

''  But  I  cannot,  my  dear  little  martyr !"  said  Val,  "  and 
I  must  speak  of  it  to  her,  at  least,  because  it  is  involved 
in  another  story  she  must  hear." 

''  In  another  story  ?"  * 

"  Yes,  Miss  Rose — for  I  suppose  I  must  still  call  you 
by  that  name — in  another  story,  stranger  than  anything 
you  ever  heard  out  of  a  novel.  A  cruel  and  shameful 
story  of  wrong  and  revenge,  that  I  have  come  here  to  toll 
you  this  morning,  and  to  which  all  tliis  has  been  but  the 
preface." 

The  governess  lifted  her  pale,  wondering  face  in  mute 
inquiry,  and  Val  began  the  story  Paul  Wyndham  had  re- 
lated the  night  before,  TJie  brown  eyes  of  the  little  gov- 
erness dilated,  and  her  lips  parted  as  she  listened,  but  she 
never  spoke  or  interrupted  him  until  he  had  finished.  She 
sat  v;ith  her  clasped  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  never  leav- 
ing his  face,  her  lips  aj^art  and  breathless. 

"  So  you  see,  Miss  Hose,"  Val  wound  up,  "  in  telling 
that  unfortunate  girl  at  Redmon  that  slie  is  not,  and  never 
has  been,  legally  the  wife  of  Paul  Wyndham,  it  is  of  ab- 
solute impossibility  to  shirk  the  other  story.  Had  she 
never  fabelj'  possessed  herself  of  that  to  which  she  had  no 
claim,  this  dishonor  would  have  been  saved  her.  She  might 
have  been  poor,  but  not  disgraced,  as  she  is  now." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Blake !  what  have  I  heard  ?  I^athalie  Mai-sh 
alive  and  here  ?" 

"  Kot  Nathalie  Marsh— liathalie  Wyndham.  What- 
ever your  stepsister  may  bo,  Nathalie  at  least  is  his  lawf  u' 
wiie ! 

"  Oh,  my  poor,  poor,  Nathalie !  And  is  she  really  in- 
sane— hopelessly  insane  ?" 

"  Hopelessly,  I  fear,  but  she  does  not  look  as  if  her 
life  would  last  long.  She  is  only  the  shadow  of  what  she 
was — a  poor,  thin,  frail  shadow. 

"  And  Harriet,  wlio  is  so  proud,  what  will  she  say  when 
this  is  told  her  ?  Oh,  how  could  Mr,  Wyndham  do  her 
such  a  wrong  2     It  was  cruel !  it  was  unmanly  I" 


DEIFTINO     OUT.  439 

^So  it  was,"  nodded  Val,  "and  it's  not  like  Lim, 
either ;  for  Wyndhani  is  a  pretty  honorable  fellow,  as  the 
world  goes.  But  man,  even  at  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Blake, 
modestly,  thinking  of  his  own  short-comings,  "  Is  weak, 
and  temptation  is  strong.  I  think  he  is  sorry  enough  foi 
it  now — not  selfishly  sorry,  either.  And  now,  Miss  Hose, 
what  I  want  is  this.  I  know  you  are  a  sort  of  unprofessed 
Sister  of  Charity  where  the  sick  ai-e  concerned,  and  you 
and  poor  Natty  used  to  be  friends.  I  want  to  know  if 
you  will  come  and  stay  with  her  for  awhile ;  she  hasn't  a 
soul  of  the  female  kind  but  Midge.  If  Joanna  were  here, 
I  wouldn't  have  to  trouble  you ;  but  in  her  absence  you 
are  the  only  one  I  can  think  of.  Of  course,  her  mother 
must  go ;  but  poor  Mi-s.  Marsh  is  of  no  more  use  in  a  sick 
room  than  a  big  wax  dolL  She  will  play  propriety  while 
you  stay." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  will  go  at  once  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Rose, 
starting  up  in  womanly  impulsiveness.  "  Wait  one  mo- 
ment while  I  run  and  tell  Mrs.  Wheatley." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  such  hurry  !  It  will  do  this  afternoon, 
when  I  will  call  for  you,  with  Mrs.  Marsh.  Don't  tell 
Mrs.  Wheatley  who  it  is  you  are  going  to  see,  mind— the 
secret  wall  get  out,  of  com-se,  but  we  don't  want  every- 
body to  know  it  just  yet." 

"  I  will  not  tell.    'What  time  will  you  call?" 

"  About  three.  I  am  going  to  Kedmon  now.  She 
ought  to  know  at  once !"  ,    .     oi     • 

"  My  poor,  poor  Earriet !  Oh,  Mr.  Blake !  She  is  so 
proud  and  sensitive.     You  will  spare  her  as  much  as  you 

can  ?" 

Mr.  Blake  took  the  two  little  clasped  hands  between 
his  own  broad  palms,  and  looked  down  kindly  m  the  pale, 
pleading  face.  . .  a     ^  a 

"  I  think  I  could  spare  my  worbt  enemy  if  you  pleaded 
for  him,  my  little  friend.  t)on't  be  afraid  of  me,  Miss 
Winnie.  I  don't  think  it  is  in  me  to  strike  a  fallen  f oe— 
and  that  poor  girl  at  Eedraon  never  injured  rae.  txoocl- 
bye,  unoi  then  1"  ^  i.       m„ 

Mr.  Blake's  composure,  as  we  know,  was  not  easily 
disturbed;  but  he  rung  the  bell  at  lledmon  with  much 


440  DRIFTING    OUT. 

the  same  scDsation  a  miserable  sufferer  from  toothache 
rings  at  a  dentist's  door. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Wyndham  was  in,  the  servant  said,  taking 
the  visitor's  card  and  ushering  him  into  the  library,  where 
a  bright  fire  blazed,  for  the  lady  of  Redmon  liked  fi.res. 
Yal  sat  and  stared  at  it,  wondering  how  he  would  begin 
his  disagreeable  task,  and  how  she  would  take  it. 

"  She's  such  a  iiarer  anyway !"  tl^ought  Mr.  Blake, 
"  that  I  dare  say  she'll  fly  out  at  me  like  a  wildcat  1  What 
a  mess  it  is !     I  wish  I  never  had  got  into  it !" 

The  door  opened  while  he  was  tiiinking,  and  Olive  came 
in.  She  was  dressed  in  a  loose  morning  negligee,  every 
fold  showing  how  indifferently  her  toilet  had  been  made. 
Val  saw,  too,  how  pale,  and  wan,  and  weary  her  dark  face 
looked ;  how  hollow,  and  earthen,  and  melancholy  her 
large  black  eyes.  She  had  had  her  own  share  of  the  suffering, 
and  her  pride  and  haughty  defiance  seemed  subdued  now. 

"  Does  she  know  already  ?"  wondered  Yal ;  "  if  not, 
why  does  she  look  like  that  ?  Have  you  been  ill,  Mrs. 
Wyndham  ?"  he  asked,  aloud. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  drearily ;  "  but  I  have  not  been 
out  much  of  late,  and  so  have  got  low-spirited,  I  suppose. 
This  wretched  autumn  weather,  too,  always  makes  me 
dismal." 

"  How  shall  I  begin  ?"  thought  Yal,  staring  moodily 
in  the  fire.  But  the  clieering  blaze  gave  forth  no  answer, 
and  it  was  Olive  hei*self  who  broke  the  ice. 

"  Has  anything  happened,  Mr.  Blake,  to  make  you 
wear  that  serious  face  ?     Mr.  Wyndham " 

She  paused — ^her  voice  quivering  a  little.  Yal  looked 
up. 

"Mr.  Wyndham  is  at  Eosebush  Cottage,"  he  said. 
, "  Did  you  know  it  ?" 

"  I  thought  he  was.  It  is  three  days  since  he  was 
here." 

The  tremor  was  in  her  voice  again. 

"What  does  it  mean,  at  all ?"  thought  Yal;  "it  can't 
be  that  she  cares  for  the  fellow,  surely !" 

"  Is  his  mother  worse,  do  you  know  ?"  she  asked,  her 


D  RIFT  IN  O     OUT.  441 

spirit  rebelling  against  the  question  her  torturing  anxiety 
forced  from  her. 

"  JS'ow  it  is  coming!"  thought  Yal ;  "bless  my  soul ! 
but  it  is  hard  to  get  out !  It  sticks  in  my  throat  like  Mac- 
beth's  amen  !  Madam,"  lie  said,  aloud,  facing  round  and 
plunging  into  the  icy  shower-bath  at  once,  "  there  has  been 
a  terrible  mistake,  which  only  came  to  my  knowledge  last 
night.  A  great  wrong  has  been  done  you  by  Mr.  "VYynd- 
ham,  and  it  is  to  inform  you  of  it  I  have  come  here  to- 
day." 

He  pale  face  turned  blood-red,  and  then  ghastly 
white. 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,"  she  cried,  "  I  know  it !  She 
is  not  his  mother !" 

"  She  is  not !"  said  Yal,  very  much  surprised ;  "  but 
how  in  the  world  did  you  find  it  out  ?" 

She  did  not  speak.  She  sat  looking  at  him  with  a 
dreadful  lixed  stare. 

"Tell  me  all,"  she  said;  "tell  me  aUI  Who  ia 
she «" 

"  She  is  his  wife !  I  don't  think  you  can  know  that. 
He  was  a  mari'ied  man  before  he  ever  saw  you  here." 

A  low  cry  of  despair  broke  from  Olive's  white  lips. 
This  was  not  what  she  had  expected — at  the  worst,  she 
had  never  thought  of  this. 

"  His  wife !"  she  cried,  "and  what,  then,  am  I  ?'' 

Yal  sat  dumb.  It  was  not  a  very  pleasant  question  to 
answer;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  more  than  a  little 
afraid  of  the  lightning  liasliing  from  those  midnight 
eyes. 

"  "What  am  I  ?"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice  almost  pierc- 
ing in  its  shrillness.  "  What  am  I  \  If  she  is  his  wife, 
what  am  I  ?" 

"  My  dear  madam,  it  is  a  most  wicked  affair  from  be* 
ginning  to  end,  and  yon  have  been  most  shamefully  duped. 
Believe  me,  I  pity  you  from  the  very  bottom  of  my 
lieart." 

With  a  cry  that  Yal  Blake  never  forgot,  in  its  broken- 
hearted anguish  and  despair,  she  dropped  down  on  the 
sofa,  and  buried  her  face  among  the  pillows, as  if  she  would 
18* 


442  DRIFTING     OUT. 

have  shut  out  tlie  world  and  its  miseries,  as  she  did  the 
sig]it  of  the  man  before  her. 

Mr.  Blake,  not  knowing  any  panacea  for  misery  such 
as  this,  and  fearing  to  turn  consoler,  lest  he  should  make  a 
mess  of  it,  did  the  very  best  thing  he  could  have  done,  let 
it  alone,  and  began  the  story  he  had  to  tell.  So,  lying 
there  in  her  bitter  humiliation,  this  woman  heard  that  her 
miserable  secret  was  a  secret  no  longer,  and  that  the  pale, 
silent  actress  of  Mrs.  Butterby's  lodgings  had  been  Na- 
thalie Marsh,  and  was  now  Paul  Wyndham's  beloved  wife. 
That  was  the  misery — she  scarcely  heeded,  in  the  supreme 
suffering  of  that  thought,  the  discovery  of  her  own  trick- 
ery and  deceit — she  only  knew  that  the  man  she  had 
thought  her  husband,  and  who,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  had 
learned  to  love,  had  cruelly  and  shamefully  deceived  her. 
She  had  never  for  one  poor  moment  been  his  wife,  never 
for  an  instant  had  a  right  to  his  name  ;  she  was  only  the 
poor  despised  tool,  whom  he  used  at  the  bidding  of  the 
wife  he  lo^'ed.  The  horrible  agony  she  suffered  lying 
there,  and  thinking  of  those  things,  no  human  pen  can  tell 
— no  heart  conceive. 

Mr.  Blake  rose  up  when  he  finished  his  narrative, 
thankful  it  was  over.  She  had  never  moved  or  spoken  all 
the  time,  but  he  knew  she  had  heard  him,  and  he  paused, 
with  his  hand  on  the  door,  to  make  a  last  remark. 

"  I  beg,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  will  not  be  overcome 
by  this  unfortunate  affair.  It  will  be  kept  as  close  as  pos- 
sible, and  3'ou  need  not  be  disturbed  in  the  possession  of 
Kedmon,  since  such  is  Miss  Rose's  wish.  I  have  done  my 
duty  in  telling  you,  though  the  duty  has  been  a. very  im- 
pleasant  one.     Good-morning,  madam." 

She  never  moved.  Val  looked  at  the  prostrate  figure 
with  a  vague  uneasiness,  and  remembered  it  was  just  such 
women  as  this  that  swallowed  poison,  or  went  down  to  the 
river  and  drowned  themselves.  He  thought  of  it  all  the 
way  to  Mrs.  Marsh's,  growing  more  and  more  uneasy  all 
the  time. 

"  Oh,  hang  it,"  thought  Mr.  Blake,  "  I  wish  Paul 
Wyndham  had  been  at  Jericho  before  I  ever  got  mixed 
up  in  his  dirty  doin^.     If  that  black-eyed  young  woman 


DRIFTING     WT  448 

goes  and  does  something  desperate,  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  had 
a  hand  in  her  death.  I  am  always  getting  into  other  peo- 
ple's scrapes,  somehow  !     I  suppose  it's  my  luck !" 

Val  knocked  at  the  cottage  door,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  pleased  presence  of  Mrs.  Marsh.  And  to  her,  once 
again,  the  story  of  plot  and  counterplot  had  to  be  told ; 
but  it  was  a  long  time  before  slie  could  quite  comprehend 
it.  She  cried  a  good  deal  when  she  fully  took  in  the  sense 
of  the  thing,  said  slie  wondered  at  Mr.  Wyndham,  and 
thought  it  was  dreadful  to  have  Nathalie  restored,  only  to 
lind  she  was  out  of  her  mind.  She  wanted  to  go  to  her 
at  once,  she  said — poor  dear  Natty!  and  so  Mr.  Blake 
w«nt  for  a  cab  without  more  ado,  and  found  Mrs.  Marsh 
shawled  and  bonneted,  and  all  ready,  upon  his  return. 
They  drove  up  Golden  Row  and  stopped  at  Mi*s.  "VVheat- 
ly's  for  Miss  Hose,  whom  Val  handed  in,  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  packed  himself  up  beside  the  driver. 

Midge  opened  the  door  of  Rosebush  Cottage  to  the 
visitors,  and  stared  aghast  upon  seeing  who  they  were. 

"Is  Mr.  Wyndham  in?"  asked  Yal. 

Midge  nodded,  and  jerked  her  head  toward  the  room 
he  had  been  in  the  preceding  night,  and,  unconscious  Val 
tapped  at  it,  and  then  walked  in,  followed  by  the  two 
ladies. 

Paul  Wyndham  stood  up  as  they  entered,  pale  and 
quiet  as  ever.  Nathalie,  wrapped  in  a  loose  white  morn- 
ing-dr-ess,  lay  on  a  lounge,  a  pile  of  pillows  under  her  head, 
and  a  mingled  odor  of  "vinegar  and  cologne  and  a  number 
of  saturated  cloths  showed  "lie  had  been  bathing  her  fore- 
head when  they  came  in.  Mrs.  Mai-sh  never  noticed  him, 
but  fell  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  lounge,  in  an  out- 
burst of  motherlv  grief  and  joy,  raining  kisses  on  the  fever- 
ish face.  Alas !  that  now-llnshed,  feverish  face !  the  cheekj 
crimson,  the  forehead  shining,  and  burning  with  raging 
fever,  tho  golden  hair  all  tossed  f  nd  disordered  over  the 
pillows,  and  tho  hot,  rest  less  head  turning  ceaselessly  from 
side  to  side,  vainly  trying  to  cool  its  lire.  The  blue  eyes 
Blione  with  fever's  luster ;  but  no  light  of  recogniiion  came 
into  them  at  her  mother's  passionate  words  and  kisses. 
Miss  Rose,  throwing  off  her  hct  and  mantle,  knelt  beside 


444  OniFTING     OUT. 

her  and  dipped  the  clotlis  in  vinegar  and  water,  and  laid 
them  on  the  burning  brow  of  the  poor  stricken  girl.  Yal 
looked  ii  quiringly  at  Mr,  Wyndliam. 

"  Sho  iinist  have  taken  cold  last  evening  in  the  church," 
he  answered,  in  a  low  tone;  "she  became  delirious  in  the 
^niglit,  and  has  continued  so  ever  since." 

"  I'll  be  off  for  the  doctor  at  once,"  said  Val,  briskly ; 
"she's  in  a  bad  way,  I  know.  I'll  fetch  Dr.Leach,  he 
was  their  family  physician,  and  won't  tell." 

Energetic  Mr.  Blake  stalked  out  of  the  room  without 
more  ado.     Paul  "VVyndham  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"  They  know  ?"  he  inquired,  motioning  toward  the 
room  they  had  quitted. 

"All  about  it,"  said  Yal,  "and  so  does  that  unhappy 
young  woman  at  Redmon,  and  if  she  doesn't  commit 
suicide  before  night  it  will  be  a  mercy.  And  oh,  "Wynd- 
ham,  by  the  way,  you  had  better  not  show  yourself.  It 
isn't  a  very  creditable  aifair,  you  know,  to  any  of  the 
parties  concerned,  and  the  best  atonement  you  can  make 
is  to  keep  out  of  sight." 

He  strode  off,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  in  search  of 
Dr.  Leach,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  that  gentle- 
man taking  his  dinner.  Mr.  Blake  hiarried  him  through 
that  meal  with  little  regard  to  calm  digestion,  and  on  the 
road  had  to  relate,  for  the  fourth  time,  the  story,  of  which 
he  was  by  this  time  heartily  sick. 

Dr.  Leach  listened  like  a  man  who  cannot  believe  his 
own  ears. 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  he  exclaimed,  "  is  it  a  story  out  of 
the  Arabian  Nights  you  are  telling  me  ?  Nathalie  Mai"sh 
alive,  and  Mr.  Wyndham's  wife!  The  mother  all  a 
hoax,  and  the  young  woman  at  Redmon  a — what  is  she, 
Blake?" 

"  Blamed  if  I  know  1"  replied  Mr.  Blake ;  "but,  what- 
ever she  is,  Nathalie  was  the  first  wife.  It's  a  very  un- 
common story,  but  it  is  true  as  preaching  for  all  that,  only 
I  am  getting  tired  of  telling  it  so  often." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  Wonders  will  never  cease !  Natty 
returned  to  lift,  Cherry  back  in  Speekport,  and  Charley 


DRIFTING     OUT.  445 

coming!  Why,  Yal,  we  will  have  the  old  merry  time  aU 
over  agam  before  long  "' 

"  I  am  afraid  not !  I  am  afraid  poor  Nathalie  is  be- 
yond even  your  skill,  doctor.  She  wjis  almost  at  death's 
door  before,  and  this  fever  will  finish  her." 

Mr.  Wyndhani  was  not  in  the  room  wlien  the  doctor 
and  Yal  returned.  Mi-s.  Marsh  and  Miss  Kose  were  still 
keej)mg  cooling  apiDlications  to  the  hot  forehead,  but  noth- 
in<^  could  cool  tlie  fever  tliat  consumed  her.  Val  drew 
Miss  Rose  aside  as  the  doctor  bent  over  his  patient 

"Where  is  Wyndham?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  He  has  not  been  here  since  vou 
left."  ^ 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?"  nodding  toward  the 
fever-stricken  girl  '  n  the  lounge. 

The  governess,  \vhose  experience  among  the  sick  poor 
made  her  no  unskillful  leech,  looked  out  of  the  window 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  We  have  found  her  to  lose  her  again,  I  fear.  Look 
at  Dr.  Leach's  face  I  Can  you  not  read  his  verdict 
there  ?" 

Tho  old  ]^hysician  certainly  was  looking  seriously 
grave,  and  shook  his  head  at  Mre.  Marsh's  eager  ques- 
tioning. 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,  ma'am,  and  do  what  we 
can.     The  result  is  in  the  hands  of  Providence." 

"  Then  you  think  there  is  danger,  doctor  ?"  said  Yal, 
coming  forward. 

"  Lnminent  danger,  sir !  It  is  typhoid  fever,  and  a 
veiy  serious  case,  too.  A  strong  constitution  would  stand 
a  chance,  but  she  has  no  constitution  at  all.  Gone,  sir  I 
gone  !  she  is  as  feeble  as  an  infant." 

"  Then  there  is  no  hope  at  all  ?" 

"None!"  replied  Dr.  Leach,  solemnly;  "she  will 
never  leave  this  room  aliva  And  better  so,  better  so  than 
as  she  was." 

"Yes,"  said  Yal,  sadly;  "it  is  better  as  it  is  I  My 
dear  Mrs.  Marsh,  don't  distress  yourself  so.  Think  that 
her  mind  is  entirely  gone,  and  never  could  be  restored,  I 


446  DRIFTING     OUT. 

believe,  and  you  will  be  thankful  tbat  her  earthly  troubles 
are  so  nearly  ended." 

Dr.  Leach  was  giving  directions  in  a  low  tone  to  Miss 
Itose,  and  Val,  at  his  desire,  lifted  the  slight  form  of  the 
sufferer  in  liis  strong  arms,  caiTied  her  into  the  inner 
room,  and  laid  her  on  the"  bed. 

"  I  vriA  call  in  again  before  night,"  said  the  doctor. 
'•Eemeinber  my  directions,  Miss  Eose.  Come,  Blake; 
you  re  going,  1  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  in  a  moment.     I  want  to  see  Wyndham." 

Paul  Wyndham  was  walldng  up  and  down  the  hall  as 
they  came  out,  his  pale  face  expressive  of  but  one  thing 
— intensest  anxiety.  Dr.  Leach,  with  a  stiff  bov/,  passed 
on  and  went  out,  but  Val  halted. 

"Well?-'  Mr.  AYyndliam  asked,  eagerly. 

"  No  hope,"  said  Yal ;  "  no  earthly  power  can  save 
lier.  It's  tvphoid — the  most  malignant  kind.  She  will 
die,  thank  God !" 

Paul  Wyndham  leaned  against  the  wall  and  covered 
his  face,  with  a  bitter  groan. 

"As  to  you,"  pursued  Yal,  sternly,  "you  must  leave 
this  house  at  once,  and  enter  it  no  more.  Do  not  forget 
that  we  are  acting  criminally  in  screening  you  from  the 
law,  and  that ,  we  can  enforce  pur  commands.  Go  at 
once,  and  do  not  come  here  again  until  all  is  over !" 

Pie  left  the  house  as  he  spoke,  and  jojned  the  doctor, 
who  had  gained  the  highroad.  Some  people  passing  stared 
to  see  them  coming  from  Eosebush  Cottage,  and  sur- 
mised Mr.  Wyndham's  mad  mother  must  be  worse  than 
ever." 

"  How  long  can  she  last,  doctor  ?"  Yal  asked,  before 
they  parted. 

"Not  over  two  weeks,  I  fancy,  at  the  most.  This 
fever  will  carry  her  off  at  once." 

Late  in  the  evening  Dr.  Leach  retnnied,  and  found 
Nathalie  worse.  Mr.  ^T)'ndham  had  left  the  cottage, 
after  taking  one  last  look  at  the  wife  he  loved  so  passion- 
ately. The -agony  in  his  face  had  gone  to  Mi's.  Marsh's 
heart,  and  she  ciied  now,  as  she  spoke  of  it  to  the 
doctor. 


DRIFTING     OUT.  .         441 

"Yes; 
''  lie's  very 
aud,  only 
bigamy  this  minute !" 

Miss  Kose  did  not  go  home  that  night;  she  would 
never  leave  Nathalie  noAv.  She  sent  a  note  to  Mi-s. 
Wheatly  by  tlie  doctor,  ex])]aining  that  it  was  a  case  of 
iyplioid,  and  that  she  feared  to  bring  the  infection  into 
the  family.  All  further  explanation  she  left  to  the  doc- 
tor, only  desiring  that  her  clothes  might  be  sent  to  her. 
Mrs.  Marsh  dispatched  a  similar  message  to  Betsy  Ann, 
and  before  night  everybody  knew  that  Mr.  AVyndham's 
mother  was  very  bad,  that  Dr.  Leach  and  Val  Blake  had 
been  there,  and  that  Mi-s.  Marsh  and  Miss  llose  were 
staying  to  take  care  of  lier. 

And  what  did  Spcckport  say  to  all  this?  Oh,  Speck- 
port  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  and  surmise,  and  inquire, 
llow  was  it,  Speckport  wanted  to  know,  in  tlie  tii-st  placo, 
that  Mi-s.  Marsh  and  Miss  Rose  should  be  especkiUy  se- 
lected as  the  sick  woman's  nui-scs?  To  wliich  T>r.  Leach 
repliecl  that  Miss  Hose,  being  such  a  capital  hand  at  tlie 
business,  and  so  fond  of  it  into  the  bargain,  he  thought 
that  there  was  no  one  in  the  town  so  fitted  for  the  task ; 
and  Mrs.  Marsh,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  could  j)lay 
proj)riety  and  i-ead  novels  there  as  well  as  in  Cottage 
Street.  What  was  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother  like,  was  she 
a  violent  lunatic,  and  was  her  present  disease  infectious  ? 
Speckport  further  inquired.  To  which  Dr.  Leach  said, 
Mrs.  Wyndham  was  the  wreck  of  a  very  handsome 
woman,  that  she  was  not  violent,  only  imbecile,  and  that 
her  fever  was  highly  infectious,  and  maae  it  extremely 
dangerous  for  any  one  br.t  the  physician  aud  nui-sei:  to 
enter  the  house ;  on  which  account  Mr.  Wyndham  would 
absent  himself  from  Redmon,  and  Mi's.  Olive  from  Rose- 
bush Cottage,  until  all  was  over.  After  which  ominous 
phrase  the  doctor  would  hurry  away,  and  Speckport  M-as 
satisfied. 

Mr.  Blake,  to  be  consistent,  took  up  his  q^iartors  else- 
where, and  visited  the  cottage  every  day  to  inquire.  Paul 
Wyndham,  who  was  stopping  at  the  Farmer's  Hotel,  ?erj 


44S  ♦  DRIFTING     OUT. 

near  tlie  cottage,  came  two  or  three  times  a  day  to  ask, 
but  no  one  invited  liim  to  enter,  and  a  sense  of  honor  for 
bade  his  intruding.  The  answer  to  all  inquiries  was  c<jn- 
tinually  the  same,  "No  better."  !No,  Kathalie  was  no 
better — never  would  be  better  in  this  world!  She  lay 
tossing  on  lier  feverish  bed,  raving  wildly,  consumed  with 
burning  heat,  never  resting  night  or  day.  All  the  scenes 
of  her  life  were  acted  over  again  in  that  burning  chasm. 
Now  she  babbled  of  her  schoolgu-l-days,  her  mathematics 
and  her  music,  or  berrying  and  nutting  frolics  with  Char- 
ley. Now  she  was  with  Captain  Cavendish,  loving  and 
trusting  and  liappy ;  and  now  she  was  shrieking  out  again 
that  she  saw  the  murdered  woman,  and  covering  her  eyes 
to  shut  out  the  ghastly  sight.  Now  the  days  of  her 
misery  had  come;  now  she  was  at  sea  with  Captain  Locks- 
ley,  and  in  the  New  Tork  lodging-house;  now  on  the 
stage,  making  rambling,  incoherent  speeches,  and  singing 
stage-songs.  Now  she  was  with  Paul  Wyndham,  his 
wife ;  now  she  was  in  the  cathedral  listening  to  the  stern 
preacher.  And  here  she  would  shriek  out,  and  toss  her 
arms  wildly,  and  ask  them  to  take  her  to  Eedmon,  that 
she  must  tell  her  all — she  must !  she  must !  And  Miss 
Rose  and  her  mother  would  have  to  hold  her  down  by 
force  to  prevent  her  from  rising  from  the  bed  in  her  ex- 
citement, and  soothe  her  with  promises  that  she  should  go 
there — only  to  wait  a  little  while.  And  the  poor  sufierer 
would  fall  back  exhausted,  and  perhaps  go  back  to  the 
old  days  when  she  played  with  Cliarlej,  a  child. 


DIES    m^,     DIES    ILLA.  449 

CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

DIES  IKiE,  DIES  ILLA. 

HE  November  day  broke  bleak  and  gloomy. 
The  dismal  dawn  was  laden  with  thick,  sodden 
fog,  and  wretched,  drizzling  rain.  The  wind, 
full  of  the  wail  of  coming  winter,  was  cold 
and  raw  ;  and  the  sky,  seen  dimly  through  the 
fog-bank,  was  of  sullen  lead,  the  eartli  black  and  dreary ; 
and  the  sea  and  the  fog  so  mixed  that  you  conid  hardly 
tell  wliere  one  began  and  the  other  ended. 

In  the  Farmers'  Hotel,  a  rambling  wooden  building, 
standing  by  itself  on  a  quiet  country  road,  all  was  still  as 
the  grave  at  this  early  hour  of  the  miserable  November 
morning.  Even  in  the  kitchen  and  halls  there  was  as  yet 
no  stepf  and  the  servants  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  In 
their  own  dormitories.  Perhaps  of  all  in  the  house  the 
man  who  stood  at  his  chamber  window,  blurred  and 
smeared  with  clammy  wet,  and  stared  honelessly  out 
through  the  full  blank  of  fog  and  mist,  was  the  only  one 
astir  in  the  lionse. 

In  the  murky  dawn  of  this  bad  November  mornmg, 
Paul  Wyndham,  with  hollow  creases  under  his  eyes,  and 
deep  plowshares  of  silent  suffering  about  his  mouth  and 
forehead,  stood  looking  out  of  the  stained  wmdow,  at 
the  flat  waste  of  desolation  without.  It  was  liardly  two 
poor  weeks,  but  it  seemed  a  lifetiine;  and  a  horrible 
numbness  was  coming  over  him  and  bluntmg  all  sense  of 
I3ain.  Would  it  always  go  on  like  this— this  dull,  dead 
blank  in  life— would  it  lost  forever  ?  All  things  were  be- 
o-innin^  to  look  unreal,  and  lose  their  significance,  nothing 
seemed  palpable  or  as  it  used  to  be  He  was  conscious 
that  the  crisis  bad  come  ;  that  in  the  long,  black,  sluggish 
watches  of  that  wet  November  night  a  battle  had  been 
fou-ht  between  Hfe  and  death,  in  the  cottage  whose 
lighted  window  he  could  see  fi'om  his  own ;  but  only  con- 


450  DIES    IR^,     DIES    ILLA. 

scions  in  a  dull,  numb  sort  of  way,  to  wliicli  the  sharpness 
of  the  torture  had  ^-iven  force. 

The  pale,  cold  dawn  crept  shining  in  while  he  stood 
there  blankly  staring  out  at  the  hopeless  dreariness,  and 
he  roused  himself  from  his  toi-por  by  a  great  effort  at  last. 
A  loud-voiced  clock  somewhere  in  the  silent  house  struck 
six  as  he  put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat  and  went  down 
etaire. 

Paul  Wyndham  waded  on  through  the  sea  of  mud,  in 
the  cold  morning  rain,  not  meeting  a  soul,  until  he  stood 
before  Rosebush  Cottage.  The  red  light  in  the  window 
burned  stiil ;  but  had  that  other  light,  that  light  of  a 
beloved  life,  gone  out  in  the  night  ?  It  had  been  the 
crisis  of  the  fever — tliat  low,  miserable,  burning,  deUrious 
fever,  in  which  for  so  many  weary  days  and  endless 
nights,  the  poor,  unconscious  sufferer  had  tcssed.  Ah! 
that  dreary  time  of  probation — when  the  faithful  watchers 
had  seen  her  sink  day  by  day ;  wlien  they  had  to  force  her 
clenched  teeth  apart  to  admit  teaspoonfuls  of  beef-tea ; 
when  they  had  listened  with  aching  heaiis  to  her  meaning- 
less babble,  or  the  songs  the  weak  voice  sang.  But  that 
sad  time  of  waiting  had  dragged  itself  out,  and  the  night 
came  which  must  end  all  suspense.  Does  hope  ever  en- 
tirely leave  tlie  liuman  heart,  until  the  blank  face  actually 
grows  rigid  and  the  death-rattle  sounds  ?  Those  sad  and 
silent  watchers  in  that  darkened  room  hoped  against  hope 
through  the  slow  lingering  hours  of  that  night.  They 
were  all  there — Dr.  Leach,  Yal,  Mi"S.  Marsh,  Miss  Eose, 
and  Midge,  all  mutely  watching  tlie  pale  shadow  of 
Nathalie  lying  so  still  and  whito  on  the  bed.  You  mi^ht 
have  thought  her  dead  had  you  entered,  and  looked  at  her 
lying  Avith  closed  eyes,  and  no  perceptible  respiration.  But 
she  was  only  sleei:)ing,  and  a  faint  breath  still  came  from 
the  colorless  lips — sleeping  a  sleep  from  which  the  doctor, 
at  least,  knew  she  could  only  awake  to  die.  Ho  had  a 
strong  hope  she  might  awake  free  from  fever,  and  that 
reason  might  return  before  the  last  hom*.  He  sat  by  the 
bedside,  holding  her  wrist  in  his  fingers,  never  taking  his 
eyes  off  her  face.  Mrs.  Mai"sh  had  fallen  asleep  quietly  in 
her  chair,  and  Mr.  Blake  was  dozing ;  so  when,  as  the  pale 


DIES    IBjE,     dies    ILLA.  451 

morning  broke,  and  the  blue  eyes  opened  to  life  once 
more,  there  was  only  tjie  doctor  and  Miss  Hose  to  bend 
over  her. 

"  Nathalie,  darling  T'  the  governess  said,  with  trem- 
bling lips,  "don't  yon  know  nici" 

The  blue  eyes  turned  upon  the  sweet  face  with  the 
3lear  light  of  restored  reason,  and  a  faint  smile  dawned  on 
the  wasted  face. 

"Miss  Rose,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  faint  that  it 
sounded  scarcely  above  a  whisper.     "  You  here  ?" 

"  I  am  here,  too,  Natty,"  said  the  physician.  "  Don't 
you  know  the  old  doctor  f 

Yes,  she  knew  hnn — she  knew  them  all  when  thev 
came  crowding  around  iier,  and  looked  up  at  them  with 
faint  wonder  in  her  fover-dinnned  blue  eyes. 

"  I  have  been  ill,  haven't  1 T  she  said,  feebly,  glancing 
at  her  poor,  transparent,  wasted  hands.  "  Have  1  been  ill 
long  ?"  '^ 

"  Not  very  long.  Natty  dear,"  her  mother  answered, 
kissing  her,  "only  two  weeks,  and  you  ^ill  be  better  soon 
now,  won't  she,  doctor'^" 

But  Dr.  Leach  did  not  reply.  How  could  he  deceive 
that  dying  girl  ?  She  looked  into  his  grave,  sad  face,  and 
a  solemn  shadow  fell  r  i  her  own,  a  shadow  of  the  dark 
ti*uth.  ,  ,  .      „„ 

"  Oh,  doctor !"  she  cried  out,  "  am  1  dymg  ? 

He  bent  over  h'ir,  and  stroked  away  tenderly  the  fuh 
dark  hair  off  her  forehead.  ^    ,  ,  t         i  j 

"  My  poor  child  !  my  dear  child  !  God  knows  1  would 
save  you  if  I  could  ;  but  tlie  power  of  life  and  death  hes 
in  higher  hands.  Has  this  world  been  such  a  pleasant 
i)lace  to  vou  that  you  should  wish  to  stay  m  it  i  Ihmk 
of  that  better  world,  my  poor  little  girl,  that  lies  beyond 
the  rrave.     It  would  be  cruel  in  me  to  deceive  you  now. 

She  drew  the  hand  he  held  out  of  his  suddenly,  and 
turned  her  face  away  from  them.  Mi-s.  Marsh  broke  out 
into  stron-  sobbing,  but  the  doctor  sternly  hushed  her. 
Bi  \  the  dulled,  dying  ear  caught  the  sound,  and  she  turned 

''-    hem  atcain.  ,        ,    , 

'  How  ionsr  have  I  to  live  ?"  she  asked. 


4y3  DIES    IR^     DIES    ILLA. 

He  could  not  tell  an  nntmtli  witli  those  earnest  eyes 
fixed  on  his  face,  and  his  voice  was  husky  as  he  replied : 

"  Not  long !  not  long,  my  poor  girl !  But  long  enough 
to  prepare  for  the  world  to  which  you  are  going." 

"  Will  I  die  to-day  ?'* 

Her  mother's  sobs  broke  out  again;  but  Nathalie 
looked  only  at  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  dear  child,  you  will  last  to-day,  I  think ;  but 
try  and  be  calm,  and  not  disturb  yom-self  at  the  shortness 
of  the  time." 

Her  hands  dropped  in  a  kind  of  collapse  of  despair. 

"  So  Boon,  so  soon !"  she  said,  "  and  so  much  to  do — 
so  nmch  to  atone  for  !" 

"  Shall  we  send  for  a  clergyman  ?"  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Siiall  I  fetch  you  Father  Lennard  ?"  inquired  Val, 
stooping  over  her. 

Her  face  brightened  a  little.  The  gray  old  priest  had 
ba])tized  her,  an  infant,  had  confinned  her  a  young  girl, 
and  she  liad  loved  and  reverenced  him  more  than  any 
one  else  on  earth.    ♦ 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  Bring  Father  Len- 
nard. Oh,  how  short  the  time  is,  and  so  much  to  be 
done." 

Mr.  Blake  found  Father  Leimard  at  home,  and  had  to 
go  over  again  the  weary  story  of  wrong-doings  and  false- 
hood. He  was  a  very  old  man ;  his  hair  had  grown  gray 
in  his  holy  calling,  and  he  was  long  used  to  tales  of  sorrow 
and  sin — sorrow  and  sin,  that  go  so  surely  hand  in  hand. 
He  had  learned  to  listen  to  such  recitals — as  a  pitiful  doc- 
tor, wlio  knows  all  the  ailments  poor  human  nature  is 
subject  to,  does  to  stories  of  bodily  suffering — tenderly, 
sadly,  but  with  no  surprise.  He  had  known  Nathalie 
Marsh  from  babyhood  ;  he  had  had  a  fathers  alfection  for 
the  pretty,  gentle,  blue-eyed  little  girl,  who  had  knelt  at 
his  confessional  so  often,  lisping  out  her  childish  faults ; 
he  had  moaned  for  her  tragic  fate ;  and  he  had  nothing 
but  pity,  and  prayer,  and  sorrow  for  her  now. 

Mrs.  ^larsh  and  Miss  Rose  were  in  the  room  with  the 
dying  girl  when  they  returned  ;  Mrs.  Marsh  sitting  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  weeping  incessantly,  and  the  pale  gover- 


DIES    IRuE,     DIES    ILLA.  453 

ness  kneeling  beside  the  pillows,  holding  the  cold  thin 
hands  in  hei-s,  and  reading  prayers  for  the  sick  out  of  a 
inissal.  Both  arose  wlien  the  Father  entered,  and  the 
dying  face  lit  up  with  a  sudden  light  of  recognition  and 
hope. 

"  My  poor  child  !  my  poor  baby  !"  the  old  man  said, 
tenderly,  bending  over  her.  "  Is  it  thus  I  find  my  little 
Natty  again  ?  Thank  God  that  reason  has  returned  to 
you  in  your  last  houi-s." 

The  mother  and  friend  of  the  dying  girl  quitted  the 
room,  leaving  the  old  priest  alone  to  prepare  the  departing 
soul  for  its  last  great  journey.  Miss  Rose  knelt  in  silent, 
fervent  prayer  all  the'time  fbut  Mi-s.  Mai-sh— poor  weak 
goul !— could  do  nothing  but  sit  and  cry.  Val  had  found 
Mr.  Wyndham  in  the  kitchen,  leaning  against  the  wooden 
chimney-piece,  with  a  white,  despairmg  face  ;  and,  pitying 
him  in  spite  of  his  misdoings,  turned  comforter  as  best  he 
could.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  hall  restlessly  between 
whiles,  feeling  in  the  soienm  hush  of  the  house  as  if  he 
were  in  the  tomb.  His  watch,  which  he  was  perpetually 
jerkino-  out,  pointed  to  ten ;  and  he  was  thinkinj,'  he 
would^'havc  to  run  do^vn  to  the  office  presently,  when, 
opening  the  pai'lor-door  to  announce  that  mteutiou,  he 
saw  Father  Lennard  come  out  of  the  sick-room. 

"AVell,  Father  r  Val  said,  anxiously. 

«  All  is  well,  thank  God  !  IShe  is  quite  resigned  now; 
and  if  sincere  contrition  ever  atoned  for  sin  hers  will 
surely  be  pardoned.     Are  you  in  a  hurry,  VaM 

"I  should  be  very  much  hurried  indeed,  father,  if  1 
could  not  do  anything  you  or  she  may  desire!     Wliat  is 

'^■""Will  von  go  to  Redinon,and  fetch  that  unhappy 
youn<.  lady  here.  The  poor  child^says  she  cannot  die 
untilllie  has  heard  her  pardon  her. 

"Fll  o-o,"  said  Val,  "but  1  ui  not  so  sure  Mi-b.  VV}nd 
ham  4iVco'me.     You' see,  she  L.  one  of  y--  P-"^^^^^^^^ 
high-stepping    people,    and    is  m    such  trouble  herseli 

*^' '^"me  go  with  you,  Mr.  Blake,"  cried  ^Miss  Rose, 
starting  up ;  "I  tliink  she  will- come  with  mc. 


454  DIES    IlLF,     DIES    ILLA. 

"  All  riglit,  then  !  Put  jour  bonnet  on  while  I  run 
round  and  make  Peter  get  out  the  buggj." 

The  buggy  came  round  to  tho  front  door,  and  Yal 
assisted  the  governess  in  and  drove  oH. 

Father  Lennard  returned  to  the  sick-room,  and  sat 
there  holding  the  liand  of  the  dying,  whose  sad,  sunken 
blue  eyes  never  left  his  face,  and  talking  of  that  merciful 
Kadeeraer,  who  oiice  said  to  another  poor  sinful  creatxre, 
"  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee !"  iS^athalie  lay,  clasping  a 
crucifix  to  Jier  breast,  her  pale  lips  moving  in  ceaseless 
inward  prayer,  while  she  listened,  her  face  calm  and  beau- 
tiful in  its  holy  hope.  The  hours  that  intervened 
seemed  very  short,  and  then  the  carriage  wheels  crunched 
over  the  gravel,  and  IJ^athalie  caught  her  breath  with  a 
sort  of  gasp. 

"  Oh,  Father,  do  you  think  she  has  come  ?" 

"  I  trust  so,  dear  child  !     I  will  go  and  see." 

As  lie  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  front  door 
opened.  Yal  stalked  in,  followed  by  Miss  Rose  and — 
yes,  by  a  ligare  stately  and  tall,  dressed  very  plainly,  and 
closely  vaiR'd.  The  priest  knew  that  majestic  ligure, 
although  the  face,  seen  dimly  through  the  vail,  was  so 
ciianged  that  he  hardly  knew  it. 

'*  You  may  go  in,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Miss  Rose's 
appealing  look  ;  "  she  is  waiting  for  you." 

As  the  door  closed  upon  the  tall  vailed  form,  and  the 
two  womon,  united  to  the  same  man,  were  face  to  face. 
Father  Lennard  took  his  hat  to  go. 

"  I  shall  return  again  in  the  afternoon,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
would  stay  all  day  if  I  could,  but  it  is  impossible." 

"  I  will  th'ive  you  into  town,"  said  Val ;  "Peter  can 
fetch  the  traps  back.     Oh,  here's  the  doctor !" 

Dr.  Leach  opened  the  garden-gate  as  they  came  out, 
and  lifted  his  hat  to  the  clergyman. 

"  How  is  she  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Failing  fas!:,"  said  Father  Lennard.  "  1  do  not  think 
she  will  wear  tlie  night  through  !" 

"  You  are  coming  back,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  shall  endeavor  to  do  so.  1  promised  her  I  would, 
poor  child  !" 


DIES    IH^,     DIR8    ILLA.  455 

The  doctor  went  into  the  drawipg-room,  wliere  Mrs. 
Marsli,  tlirongh  her  te:irs,  told  him  who  was  with  lier 
The  old  doctor  looked  dissatisfied. 

"  They'll  agitate  iier  too  much— 1  know  thev  will 
with  their  crying  and  taking  on.     If  they  stay  lon<r   f 
will  ^o  and  turn  them  out !"  ^        j         &» 

He  waited  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  watch  in  hand 
frownmg  impatiently  at  the  dial-plate,  and  then  the 
chamber-door  reopened  and  the  half-sisters  came  out.  Tlie 
swollen  eyes  of  the  governess  told  how  she  had  been 
weeping,  bat  the  other  had  dropped  her  vail  once  more, 
and  was  invisible.  T>i\  Leach  bowed  to  her,  but  she 
passed  on  without  seeming  to  see  him.  Miss  Rose 
followed  her  to  the  door,  and  looked  wistfully  out  at  the 
wet,  foggy  November  weather,  and  the  hopeless  slough 
of  mud. 

•'  You  cannot  walk  back,  Harriet.  I  will  send  Peter 
to  Redmon  for  the  carriage.  You  will  get  your  death  of 
cold  to  walk  there,  unused  as  you  are  to  AvafkiiK'." 

"  What  does  it  matter?''  she  said,  in  a  strangely  hol- 
low voice,  "  the  sooner  I  get  my  death  the  better.  If  I 
could  only  die  like  her,  I  should  rejoice  however  soon  it 
came !" 

"  Bat,  Harriet " 

But  Harriet  was  gone,  even  while  she  spoke,  walking 
rapidly  through  the  drizzling  rain  and  clammy  mud — she, 
who  had  had  a  fastidious  horror  of  mud  on  her  dainty  boots 
— and  knowing  nothing  of  either.  All  that  was  Ixjst  in 
her  nature  had  been  roused  into  life  by  that  dying-bsd,  but 
still  that  utter  sense  of  despair  and  desolation  tilled  her 
soul.  Her  life  was  done — there  was  no  future  for  her — ■ 
in  all  the  wide  universe  there  was  not  such  another 
miserable  woman  as  hereelf,  she  thought — desolate,  un- 
loved, and  alone. 

There  were  not  many  people  abroad  that  bad  Novem- 
ber day ;  but  those  who  were,  and  who  recognized  Mrs. 
W^mdham  through  her  vail,  and  bowed  ceremoniously, 
felt  themselves  outraged  at  receiving  the  cut  direct.  She 
never  saw  them — she  walked  straight  forward  to  that 
stately  home  that  was  hers  no  longer,  as  people  walk  in 


456^  IflES    IILE,     DIES    ILL  A. 

sleep,  with  eyes  wide  open  and  staring  straight  before 
her,  but  seeing  nothing. 

Dr.  Leach  went  into  the  sick-room  as  the  others  left 
it ;  but  he  returned  presently,  frowning  ao:ain.  i 

"  "Wliere  is  the  fellow  to  be  found V'  he  asked,  im- 
patiently ;  "slje  will  excite  herself  in  spite  of  all  I  can  say. 
She  must  see  him,  she  says,  if  only  for  ten  minutes." 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Wyndham  ?"  asked  Miss  Eose ;  and  the 
doctor  nodded  crosslj'. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  dying  girl  had  spoken 
of  him  ;  and  Miss  Rose,  who  knew  he  was  in  the  house, 
left  the  room  without  a  word. 

"  Oil,  he  is  here,  is  he  ?"  said  Dr.  Leach.  "  I  might 
have  known  it !     Hem !     Here  he  comes !" 

Paul  Wyndham  followed  the  governess  into  the  par- 
lor, looking  so  haggard  that  even  the  old  doctor  pitied 
hiin. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Wyndham,"  he  said,  "  my  patient  is  not 
to  be  unnecessarily  excited,  remember !  I  give  you  just 
ten  minutes,  not  a  second  more  !" 

Mr.  Wyndliam  bowed  his  head  and  passed  into  the 
chamber;  and  Dr.  Leach,  watch  in  hand,  planted  liimself 
at  the  door,  and  grimly  counted  the  minutes.  When  the 
ten  had  passed,  he  opened  the  door. 

"  Time's  up,"  he  said ;  "  say  good-bye,  Mr.  "W^mdham, 
and  come  out !" 

They  were  all  merciful  enough  not  to  look  at  him  as 
he  obeyed.  Dr.  Leach  went  in  and  found  poor  jJ^athalie 
lying  with  her  eyes  closed,  claspinu;  her  crucifix,  lier  lips 
still  moving  in  voiceless  prayer.  Shu  looked  up  at  him 
with  her  poor,  pleading  eyes. 

The  old  doctor  dei3arted,  and  the  two  women  were 
left  alone  with  the  dymg  wife  of  Paul  AVyndham.  Mis3 
Rose  sat  by  the  bedside,  reading,  in  her  sweet,  low  voice, 
the  consoling  prayers  for  the  sick,  Avliile  poor,  weak,  use- 
less Mrs.  Mareh  only  rocked  backward  and  forward  in 
the  rock ing-cli air,  moaning  and  crying  in  feeble  hwljiless- 
ness.  And  Paul  Wyndiiam,  in  tlie  room  on  tlie  other 
side  of  the  hall,  walking  restlessly  up  and  down,  or  stop- 
ping to  gazo  out  of  the  window,  or  running  to  Midge 


DIES    in^T!,     DIES    ILLA.  457 

every  five  irinutes  to  go  and  inquire  how  she  was— felt 
and  suffered  as  men  only  can  feel  and  suffer  once  in  a 
lifetime. 

The  leaden  hours  of  the  twilight  deepened  into  night 
— black,  somber,  starless.  With  the  night  came  tlie  wind 
and  fell  the  rain.  The  storm  had  been  gathering  sul- 
lenly all  day,  and  broke  with  the  night  fast  and  fm-ious. 
The  rain  lashed  the  windows,  and  the  melancholy- 
autumn  winds  shrieked  aiid  wailed  alternately  around  the 
cottage,  waking  a  surging  roar  in  the  black  cedar  woods 
beyond.  The  feeble  hands  still  fold  themselves  over  the 
precious  crucifix — that  "  sign  of  hope  to  man" — but  the 
power  of  speech  has  gone.  She  cannot  move, either;  her 
eyes  and  lips  are  all  that  seem  alive,  but  her  sense  of 
hearing  remains.  She  hears  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels 
outside,  and  heai-s  when  Father  Lennard,  Dr.  Leach,  and 
faithful  Val  enter  the  draAving-room.  The  old  priest, 
takes  Miss  Rose's  place,  to  administer  the  last  solemn 
rites  to  the  dying,  and  Nathalie  smiles  faintly  up  in  his 
face  and  kisses  the  cross  he  holds  to  her  lips.  Val  Blake 
goes  into  the  room  where  he  knows  Paul  Wyndham 
must  be,  and  finds  him  lying  as  Midge  found  him  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before.  He  stoops  down  and  finds  he 
is  asleep — Ah !  when  had  he  slcjit  night  or  day  before  ? — 
and  his  face  looks  so  haggai'd  and  heart-broken  in  repose 
that  Val  says  "  Poor  fellow !"  and  goes  softly  out. 

And  so,  with  death  in  their  midst,  the  faithful 
watchers  sit  and  keep  vigil,  while  the  stormy  night  wore 
on.  Ah !  Heaven  strengthen  us  all  for  that  dread 
death-watch,  when  we  sit  beside  those  we  love,  and  watch 
and  wait  for  the  soul  to  take  its  fight.  No  one  spoke, 
except  in  liuBhed  whispei's,  and  the  roaring  of  the  wild 
storm  sounded  awfully  loud  in  tiie  stillness.  They  can 
hear  the  voice  of  the  old  priest  as  ho  read?,  or  ttJks,  or 
prays  with  that  fluttering  spirit,  already  in  the  shadow  of 
the  valley  of  death.  As  the  watch  of  Vul  points  to 
eleven.  Miss  Rose  glides  softly  out,  with  a  face  like  snow, 
and  tells  them  to  kneel,  while  Father  Lennard  reads  the 
prayers  for  the  dying.  So  they  kneel  and  lx)W  their 
heads  with  awe-struck  spirits,  while  the  solemn  and 
20 


458  CROOKED     WATS. 

bcautifnl  prayeis  of  tbe  old  church  are  read,  and  thrill  as 
they  hear  that  awful  adjuration:  "Depart.  Christian 
soul,  out  of  this  world  !"  and  then,  as  it  is  finishing, 
there  is  a  pause.  Wliat  does  it  mean  ?  The  service  for 
the  dying  is  not  ended.  A  inoment  later  and  they  know 
— Father  Lennard  goes  on,  but  it  is  pra}ei*s  for  the  dead 
he  renders  now,  and  they  know  all  is  over ;  and  Yal 
Blake  leans  his  head  on  his  arm  and  feels  it  grow  wet, 
while  the  sad  a.nd  solemn  voice  of  the  old  priest  goes  on. 
Then  they  all  arise,  Father  Lennard  reverentially  closes 
the  blue  eyes,  that  have  looked  their  last  on  this  mortal 
life,  and  there  is  a  wild  outbreak  of  motherly  love  from 
poor  Mrs.  Marsh ;  and  Miss  E.ose,  with  her  face  buried  in 
the  pillow,  is  crying  as  she  has  not  cried  for  many  a  day  ; 
and  Val  and  the  old  doctor  go  softly  in  and  look  on  the 
beautiful  dead  face,  and  think  oi  the  bright,  happy 
Kathalie  Marsh  of  last  year — for  whom  all  the  world 
might  have  prophesied  a  long  and  happy  life — and  feel 
that  neither  youth,  nor  health,  nor  beauty,  nor  all  the 
glory  of  the  world,  can  save  us  one  hour  from  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII. 

OUT  OF  THE  CROOKED  WAY8. 

x^D  SO  all  was  over;  and  Speckport  found  out 
that  the  poor,  miserable  creature,  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham's  mother,  was  dead.  It  must  have  been 
a  merciful  release  for  her,  poor  soul !  tbcy 
said  ;  bat  the  fever  was  infectious,,  and  they 
sympathized  ut  a  respectful  distance.  But  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham's  wife  left  Redmon  and  went  to  the  cottage  as  soon 
as  she  heard  it,  and  staid  there  through  all  tlie  weary 
time  that  intervened  between  the  death  and  the  biiriaL 
There  had  been  a  consultation  about  the  funeral  and  the 


CROOKf.D     WAYS.  489 


can  be  erased ;  to  disturb  it  now  would  involve  the  telling 
of  the  whole  storj.  Let  Mr.  Wyndham  erect  what  sort 
of  nionnment  he  plea.-^es.  So  the  grave  was  dug  in  a 
sunny  inclosure,  under  a  tamarack  tree,  and  the  funeral- 
service  w;i3  held  in  the  cathedral,  and  a  long  file  of  car- 
riages followed  the  hearse  to  the  cemetery.  Paul  Wynd- 
ham, in  his  deep  mourning,  stood  bareheaded  in  the  cold 
November  sunlight  while  the  coflin  was  being  lowered 
and  the  sods  rattled  heavily  on  the  lid  ;  and  Speckport, 
as  represented  by  the  funeral  cortege,  whispered  that  Mr. 
Wyndham  looked  ten  years  older  since  his  mother's 
death. 

So  Rosebush  Cottage  was  left  once  more  to  the  sole 
care  of  Midge,  and  Mr.  Wyndham  returned  to  his  lute 
quarters  at  the  "  Farmer's"  Hotel."  Mrs.  Marsh  was 
driven  to  Cottage  Street,  and  Mr.  Blake,  having  fumigated 
himself  thoroughly,  delighted  the  home  of  Miss  Laura 
Blair  once  more  with  the  li^ht  of  his  presence.  Poor 
Laurr  had  led  rather  a  lonely  life  of  late  ;  for  her  darling 
Oily,  ^^n•apped  up  in  her  own  troubles,  had  no  time  to 
attend  to  her,  and  Val  had  deserted  them  altogether. 
She  was  sitting,  pale  and  listless,  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  a  new  and  popular  novel,  with  an  indifference  not  very 
flatterin"  to  the^  author,  when  the  opening  of  the  door 
made  hc^i-  start  up,  with  a  flush  on  her  pretty  face  and  a 
light  in  her  bright  eyes,  to  whose  flattering  interest  even 
Mr.  Blake  could  not  be  insensible. 

"  Yes,  Pve  come  back  to  poor  Laura,"  Mr.  Blake  sjiid, 
shaking  hands  with  more  warmth  than  perhaps  there  was 
any  real  necessity  for.  "  I  lind  I  can't  stay  away  from 
vou  somehow.    "How's  everybody  ?"  ,        ,     , 

^'Pa  and  ma  are  well,  if  you  mean  them  by  'every- 
body.'    So  poor  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother  has  gone  ? 

Mv.  Blake  nodded.  .  . 

«  And  what  is  Mr.  Wyndham  gomg  to  do  with  that 
love  of  a  cottage  now,  I  wonder  ?" 


460  CROOKED     WAYS. 

"  l,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  imperionsly,  "  am  going  to  pur- 
chase that  love  of  a  cottage  myself!" 

"You!  Why,  Val!  What  will  you  ever  do  with 
a  house  ?" 

"  Live  in  it,  Miss  Blair,  like  any  other  Christian !" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  of  course ;  I  suppose  you  will  send  for 
Miss  Jo  to  keep  house  for  you  again  ?" 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  thoughtfully.  "  I  think 
not.  Do  you  know,  Laura,  what  I  have  been  thinking  of 
lately  ?" 

"No;  how  should  I?" 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Val,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  I 
have  been  tliinking  of  getting  married  !  You  need  not 
mention  it  just  yet,  until  I  see  more  about  it.  In  fact,  I 
have  not  asked  the  lady  yet,  and  don't  know  what  she 
may  say." 

"  And  who  is  the  happy  lady,  pray  ?" 

"  A  particular  friend  of  mine,"  nodded  Yal,  sagely, 
"  and  of  yours,  too,  Laura.    The  nicest  girl  in  Speckport." 

"  It  is  Miss  Rose,"  thought  Laura,  with  a  sudden  sink- 
ing of  the  heart.  "  lie  always  admired  her,  and  they 
have  been  so  much  together  lately  !" 

"  I'll  buy  i\\%  cottage  from  Wyndham  as  it  stands," 
pursued  Yal,  serenely  unconscious  of  the  turn  Miss  Blair's 
thoughts  had  taken,  "  and  fetch  my  wife  there,  and  live 
in  clover  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  So  hold  youi'self  in 
leadiness.  Miss  Laura,  to  dance  at  the  wedding." 

Miss  iaura  might  have  replied  but  for  a  sudden  chok- 
ing senj;ation  in  the  throat,  and  the  entrance  of  her  portly 
mamma.  Under  cover  of  that  lady's  entrance,  she  made 
her  exit,  and  going  up  to"  her  room,  flung  herself,  face 
downward,  on  the  bed,  and  cried  until  her  eyes  were  as 
red  as  a  ferret's.  And  all  the  time  Mr.  Blake  was  in  a 
state  of  serene  complacency  at  the  artful  way  in  which  he 
had  prepared  her  for  what  was  to  come. 

"  I  couldn't  speak  much  plainer,"  he  thought,  blandly. 
•'  How  pretty  she  looked,  blushing  and  looking  down.  Of 
3ourse  I'll  get  married.  I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it 
before.     Dear  little  Laura!     I'U  never  forget  the  first 


CROOKED     WAYS.  481 

time  I  heard  lier  sinpj,  'We  won't  go  home  till  morning!' 
I  thought  her  the  jolliest  girl  then  I  ever  met." 

Mr.  Blake  was  a  gentleman  in  the  habit  of  striking 
while  the  iron  was  hot.  He  called  round  at  the  office, 
rapped  Master  Bill  Blair  over  the  head  with  the  tongs  f <  r 
standing  on  his  hands  instead  of  his  feet,  and  then  started 
off  for  the  Farmer's  Hotel,  M'ithout  more  ado,  and  was 
ushered  by  a  waiter  into  Mr.  TVyndham's  room. 

"  Blake,  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  repay,"  ho 
said  ;  "  yon  have  beeil  my  true  friend  through  all  this 
miserable  time;  and  believe  me,  I  feel  your  goodness  as 
much  as  a  man  can  feel,  even  though  1  cannot  express  it  I 
Please  God,  this  trouble  of  my  life  shall  make  me  abetter 
man,  if  I  can  never  be  a  happy  one."  ^ 

"Oh,  you'll  be  happy,"  said  Mr.  Blake.  "Getmto 
the  strait^iit  ]iath  again,  Wyndham,  and  keep  there.  I 
don't  set  up  for  a  "preacher,  goodness  knows!  but  you 
may  depend  there  is  nothing  like  it."  ^ 

"  The  straicrht  path !"  Paul  Wyndham  repeated,  with 
a  weary,  regretful  sigh  ;  "  yes,  I  have  been  straying  sadly 
out  of  the  straight  path  of  truth  and  honor  and  rectitude 
into  the  crookc<l  ways  of  falsehood  and  treachery  and  d(> 
ceit.  Heaven  help  me,  it  never  was  with  a  contented 
lieart  1  No  one  on  this  earth  could  ever  despise  me  halt 
so  much  as  I  despised  myself  all  the  time  1" 

»  AJ'  ri'dit,"  cried  Val,  cheerily,  "  it's  never  too  late 
to  mend.  "Keep  straight  now,  and  we  can  all  forgive  and 
forget  the  past.     I  suppose  you  will  be  for  leaving  us 

^^'"""llnmrdiately.     This  is  Tuesday— I  shall  depart  in 

Thui-sday's  boat."  ,   .  .  „ .,    *  „^^„  i 

"  Will  you,"  said  Val,  lighting  a  cigar ;  "that  soon f 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Rosebush  Cottage  {        ^ 
'        "  The  cott^fge  1     Oh,  I  shall  leave  it  as  it  is-that  is, 
shut  it  up.     In^time-a  year  or  two,  pei-liaps-1  may  re- 
turn and  sell  it,  if  any  one  wiU  purchase.       ^^ 
"  Don't  wait  a  year  or  two.     bell  it  now. 
"  Who  wants  it  ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  Val,  with  one  of  his  nods.  ,, 

«  You  '    What  do  you  want  of  the  place,  may  1  ask. 


4G2  CROOKED     WATS. 

"  "Well,  now,  I  don't  see  any  just  cause  or  impediment 
to  my  possessing  a  house  any  more  than  the  rest  of  man- 
kiftd,  that  everybody'  should  be  so  surprised.  I  want  the 
house  to  live  in,  of  coui-se — what  else  ?" 

Paal  Wyndham  looked  at  liim  and  smiled.  The  great 
trouble  of  his  life  had  changed  him  to  a  grave,  sad  man ; 
but  being  only  human,  he  could  still  smile. 

"  I  wish  you  joy  v.'ith  all  my  heart !  Laura  has  said 
yes,  then?" 

"  Why,  no,  not  exactly — that  is  to  say,  I  haven't  asked 
her  out-and-out  yet.  I  wanted  to  settle  about  the  house 
Urst.  But  I  gave  lier  a  ])retty  broad  hint,  and  I  guess  it's 
all  right.  I  think  I  should  like  to  live  there  particularly, 
and  nov/  what  will  you  take  for  it  as  it  stands  ?" 

Mr.  Wyndhani  arose,  opened  a  desk,  and  took  out  a 
bundle  of  papers,  which  he  laid  before  Val. 

"  Here  is  the  deed  and  all  the  documents  connected 
with  the  place.  You  can  see  what  it  cost  me  yourself. 
Here  is  the  upholsterer's  bill,  but  you  must  deduct  from 
that,  for  it  is  only  second-hand  furniture  now.  I  leave  the 
matter  entirely  to  yourself." 

With  such  premises,  bargaining  was  no  very  difficult 
matter ;  and  half  an  hour  after,  Val  had  the  deed  in  his 
pocket,  and  was  the  happy  owner  of  Rosebush  Cottage. 

"  You  stay  here,  I  suppose,  until  Thui-sday,"  he  said, 
rising  to  go. 

"  Yes>' 

"  And  how  about  that  poor  girl  at  Redmon  ?  What  is 
to  become  of  her  ?" 

Mr.  Wyndham  laid  his  hand  on  Yal's  shoulder,  and 
looked  very  gravely  up  in  his  face. 

"  Yal,  before  she  died,  in  that  last  brief  interview,  she 
spoke  of  Harriet,  and  I  gave  her  a  promise  then  which  I 
shall  faithfully  keep.  The  devotion  of  a  whole  life  can 
scarcely  atone  to  her  for  the  wrong  I,  have  done  her ;  but 
if  she  will  accept  that  atonement,  Heaven  knows  it  will 
make  me  happier  now  than  anything  else  on  earth.  If  she 
does  not  utterly  loathe  and  hate  me — if  she  will  be  my 
wife  in  reality,  as  she  has  hitherto  been  in  name — we  wil/ 


CROOKED     WATS.  401 

leavo  this  place  togetber;  and  whether  my  life  be  long  or 
short,  it  shall  be  entirely  devoted  to  her  alone." 

Val's  fucQ  turned  radiant.  He  seized  Mr.  Wyndham'a 
other  hand,  and  shook  it  with  crushing  heartiness. 

"My  dear  Wyndham!     My  dear  old  boy!     I  always 
knew  your  heart  was  in  the  riglit  place,  in  spite  of  all  your  i 
ehortcomiugs.     Oh,  you'll  be  all  right  now  I     You've  got 
the  stuff  in  yon  that  men  are  made  of !'' 

With  which  Mr.  Blake  strode  off,  fairly  beaming  with 
delight,  and  whistling  all  the  way  home.  He  sprang  up 
the  outer  steps  at  a  bound,  rang  the  bell  with  emphasis, 
and  shooting  past  the  astonislied  servant,  bolted  whirlwind- 
fashion  into  the  dining-room.  At  first  he  thought  there 
was  no  one  there,  but,  disturbed  by  the  noisy  entrance, 
from  a  sofa  before  the  tire,  and  from  out  a  heaving  sea  of 
pillows,  Laura  lifted  up  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  Poor 
Laura !  That  feminine  luxury,  a  ''  real  good  cry,"  had 
brought  on  a  raging  headache,  and  now  her  face  was 
flushed,  her  eyes  dim  and  heavy,  and  her  head  throbbing 
and  hot.  She  dropped  that  poor  but  aching  head  again 
as  she  saw  who  it  was,  with  a  rebellious  choking  in  the 
throat,  and  a  sudden  filling  of  the  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Laura,"  cried  Mr.  Blake,  in  considerable 
consternation,  "you're  not  sick,  are  you?  What's  the 
matter  ?" 

"  My  head  aches,"  Laura  got  out,  through  her  tears. 

"  Poor  little  head !"  Mr.  Blake  piteously  remarked, 
and  Laura  sobbed  outright;  "don't  cry,  Laura,  it  will  bo 
better  before  you  are  twice  married.  Look,  here's  a  plas- 
ter I've  brought  you  for  it !" 

He  put  the  deed  of  llosebush  Cottage  in  her  feverish* 
hand.     Laura  stayed  her  tears,  and  looked  at  it,  blankly. 

"Whatisitrshei\sked. 

"  Can't  you  see  i  It's  the  deed  of  Rosebush  Cottage. 
I've  bought  it,  f m-niture  and  all— and  the  furniture  is  very 
pretty,  Laura— from  Paul  Wyndham.  I'll  let  you  keep 
that  paper,  if  you'll  promise  to  take  good  care  of  it.''     _ 

"  I  don't  miderstand  you !  Oh,  Val !"  cried  Miss  Blair, 
her  heart  beginning  to  flutter  wildly  agahi.  "  what  is  it 
you  mean  2" 


484  CROOKELD     WATS. 

"  Wliy,  didn't  I  tell  you  this  morning  ?  I'm  ffoinff  to 
be  raarned— that  is,  if  you  will  have  me,  Laura !" 

Happy  Laura  !     Such  a  rosy  tide  swept  over  her  fair 
face,  and  dyed  it  radiant  red  to  the  roots  of  her  hair 
"  Oh,  Val !     I  thought  it  was  Miss  Kose." 
Yal  stared. 

"Miss  Rose!  Wliat  the  dickens  put  that  in  your 
head?  I  never  thought  of  Miss  Rose— I  meant  you  all 
the  time.     Is  it  all  riglit,  Laura  ?"  - 

All  right !  He  need  hardly  have  asked  that  question, 
seemg  the  radiant  face  before  him.  Laura  lauo-hed  and 
cried  and  blushed,  and  forgot  all  about  her  headache,  and 
for  the  next  fifteen  minutes  was  comjiletely  and  perfectly 
happy.  It  was  one  of  those  little  glimpses  of  Eden  that 
we  poor  pilgrims  of  the  desert  sometimes  catch  fleetingly 
as  we  wander  weai-ily  through  long  dreary  wastes  of  sand 
of  sluggish  marshes,  or  briery  roads.  Transient  gleams  of 
perfect  joy,  wlien  we  forget  the  past,  and  ask  nothing  of 
the  fiitnre— when  we  hold  the  overflowing  cup  of  bliss  to 
our  hps  and  drink  to  our  heart's  content. 

"  Dinner  on  the  table !"     Somebody  made  this  an- 
nouncement in  a  stentorian  voice,  and  Val  insisted  on 
Laui-a's  ttiking  his   arm,  and  accompanying  him  to  the 
dining-room.     Papa  and  Mamma  Blair  and  Master  Bill 
were  waiting  thei-e ;  and  Mr.  Blake,  ever  prompt  and  busi- 
ness-like, led  the  blushing  and  shrinking  fair  one  to  the 
parental  side,  and  boldly  demanded  their  blessing.     To 
say  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blair  were  astonished,  would  be 
dom^  no  sort  of  justice  to  the  subject ;  to  say  they  were 
delighted,  would  be  doin^  still  less ;  and  Miss  Laura  was 
^rmally  made  over  to  Mr.  Blake  hefore  grace  was  said. 
Dinner  was  only  a  matter  of  form  that  day  with  Miss  Blair 
—her  appetite  was  effectually  gone  ;  and  even  Yal— mat- 
T  ter-of-fact,  unromantic,  unsentimental  Val— ate  considera- 
bly less  underdone  roast-beef   than  usual,  and  looked  a 
good  deal  more  across  the  table  at  the  rosy,  smiling  face 
of  his  vis-a-vis  than  at  the  contents  of  his  plate.     But  din- 
ner was  over  at  last,  and  an  extra  bottle  of  ci-usty  old  port 
drank  to  the  happy  event;  and  then  Papa  Blair  buttoned 
up  his  overcoat  and  set  off  to  business  agam,  and  Master    ' 


CROOKED     WATS,  465 

Bill  started  full  gallop  for  the  office,  to  retail  the  news  to 
Mr.  Clowrie  ;  and  Mamma  Blair  went  about  her  domestic 
concerns,  and  the  lovers  were  alone  together.  But  Mr. 
Blake  was  not  at  all  "  up'  in  the  role  of  Romeo,  and  stood 
beside  Laura  at  the  window,  looking  at  the  pule  moon 
rising,  and  using  his  toothpick. 

"  What  a  lovely  night !"  Laura  said  ;  for  all  the  world, 
so  lately  a  howling  wilderness,  was  moonlight  and  coulcur 
do  rose  to  her  now,  with  plain  Yal  Blake  standing  by  her 
side.    "  How  beautifully  the  moon  is  rising  over  the  bay !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  eying  it  with  the  glance  of  a 
connoisseur  in  moonshine.  "  It's  rather  a  neat  thing  iu 
the  way  of  moonrise.     What  whistle's  that  ?" 

"  It's  the  American  boat  getting  in.  Suppose -we  go 
do^rn,  Yal,  and  see  who's  coming?" 

"All  right!"  said  Yal.  "Run  and  put  your  things 
on,  and  don't  be  an  hour  about  it,  if  you  can  help  it." 

Laura  ran  off,  and  reappeared  in  a  quarter  of  the  al- 
lotted time,  turbanedand  mantled,  and  furred,  imd  tripped 
along  through  the  moonlit  and  gaslit  streets,  with  her  new 
lianco  down  to  the  wharf.  The  tine  night  had,  as  usual, 
drawn  crowds  down  there,  and  the  wharf  was  all  bustle, 
and  excitement,  and  uproar.  Miss  Blair,  clinging  confid- 
ingly to  Mr.  Blake's  arm,  watched  the  passengers  making 
their  way  through  the  tumult  to  where  the  cabs  were  wait- 
ing, when  all  of  a  sudden  she  dropped  the  ann  she  held, 
with  a  little  shrill  feminine  scream,  and  darting  forward, 
plumped  head  foremost  into  the  arms  of  a  gentleman  coal- 
ing up  the  wharf,  valise  in  hand.  To  say  that  Mr.  Blake 
stared  aghast  would  be  a  mild  way  of  putting  it;  but  stare 
he  undoubtedly  did,  with  might  and  main.  The  gentle- 
man wore  a  long,  loose  overcoat,  heavily  furred,  and  lu's 
face  was  partially  shaded  by  a  big,  black,  California  hat ; 
but  Yal  saw  the  handsome,  sun-browned  face  beneath  for 
all  that,  with  its  thick,  dark  mustathe  and  beard.  Could 
it  be  ?  surely  not,  with  all  those  whiskers  and  that  brown 
skin ;  and  yet — and  yet,  it  did  look  like :  bat  by  this  time 
Laura  had  got  out  of  the  raustachcd  stranger's  coat- 
sleeves,  and  was  back,  breathless  with  excitement,  besidi 
the  staring  editor. 
20* 


4Q(j  CROOKED     WATS. 

"  Oil,  Yal !  it's  Charley !— it's  Charley  Marsh !  Charley, 
Marsli !"     Charley,  sure  euough,  in  spite  of  the  whiskers 
and  the  sun-brown.     Val  was  beside  him  in  two  strides, 
shaking  both  hands  as  it"  he  meant  to  w^rench  the  arms 
from  their  sockets. 

"  My  dear  boy !  my  dear  boy !  my  dear  boy !"  was  all 
Mr.  Blake  could  get  out,  while  he  spoke,  and  shook  poor 
Charley's  hands  ;  and  Laura  performed  a  little  jig  of 
ecstasy  around  them,  to  the  great  delight  of  sundry  small 
boys  looking  on.  As  for  Charley  liimself,  there  were 
teai-s  in  his  blue  eyes,  even  wiiile  he  laughed  at  Val. 

*'  Dear  old  Val!"  he  said,  " it  is  a  sight  for  sair  een  to 
look  at  your  honest  face  again !  Dear  old  boy !  there  is 
no  place  like  home !" 

"  Come  along,"  cried  Val,  hooking  his  arm  in  Charley's. 
"The  people  are  gaping  as  if  we  had  two  heads  on  us! 
Here's  a  cab ;  get  in,  Laura ;  jump  after  her,  Charley.  Now, 
then,  driver,  No.  12  Goldeii  Row !" 

"  Hold  on !"  exclaimed  Charley,  laughing  at  liis  phleg- 
matic friend's  sudden  excitement, ''  I  cannot  permit  myself 
to  be  abducted  in  this  manner.  I  must  go  to  Cottage 
Street." 

"  Come  home  with  us  first,"  said  Val,  gravely.  "  I 
have  something  to  tell  yon — something  you  ought  to  know 
before  you  go  to  Cottage  Street." 

"My  mother!"  Charley  cried,  in  sudden  alarm;  "she 
is  ill — something  is  wrong." 

"  No,  she's  not !  Your  mother  is  well,  and  nothing  is 
wrong.  Be  patient  for  ten  minutes,  and  you'll  find  out 
what  1  mean !" 

The  cab  stopped  with  a  jerk  in  front  of  Mr.  Blair's ; 
and,  as  they  got  out,  a  gentleman  galloped  past  on  horse- 
back, and  turned  round  to  look  at  them.  Val  nodded, 
and  the  rider,  touching  his  hat  to  Laura,  rode  on. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Wyndham  going,  I  wonder?"  said 
Laura. 

"  To  Redmon,  I  think,"  Val  answered.  "  Come  in, 
Charley  I  VTon't  the  old  folks  stare,  though,  when  they 
see  you  ?" 


CROOKED     WAYS.  407 

Miss  Rose — her  name  is  Rose,  you  know — had  gone 
from  Rosebush  Cottage  to  Redmon,  at  tlie  earnest  en- 
treaties of  her  half-sister.  She  had  wished  to  return  to 
Mrs.  Wheat!  v's,  and  let  things  go  on  as  before ;  but  Har- 
riet Wade — the  only  name  to  which  she  had  any  right —  k 
had  opposed  it  so  vie  lently,  and  pleaded  so  passionately, 
tliat  she  had  to  have  her  way. 

"  Stay  with  me,  Olive,  stay  with  me  while  I  am  here!" 
liad  been  the  vehement  cry.  "  I  shall  die  if  I  am  left 
alone !" 

"  Very  well,  I  will  stay,"  her  sister  said,  kissing  her; 
"but,  please,  Harriet,  don't  call  me  Olive,  call  me  Winnie. 
I  like- it  best,  and  it  is  the  name  by  which  they  know  me 
lere." 

So  Winnie  Rose  Henderson  went  to  Redmon — her 
own  riglitful  home,  and  hers  alone — and  on  the  night  of 
Charley  Marsh's  return,  when  Paul  W^Tidham  entered 
the  house,  her  small,  light  figure  crossing  the  hall  was  the 
first  object  he  saw.  She  came  forward  with  a  little 
womanly  cry  at  sight  of  him. 

"  Oh,  Mr,  Wyndham,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come ! 
I  want  you  to  talk  to  Harriet.     She  is  going  away." 

"  Going  away  !     Where  V 

"  Back  to  New  York,  she  says — anywhere  out  of  this. 
Back  to  the  old  life  of  trouble  and  toil.  Oh,  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham, talk  to  her.  All  I  say  is  useless.  But  you  have  in- 
fluence over  her,  I  know." 

*'  Have  I  ?"  Mr.  Wyndham  said,  with  a  sad,  incredu- 
lous smile.  "  What  is  it  you  want  her  to  do.  Miss  Hen- 
derson ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  make  her  stay  here.  I  want  you  to 
pei-suade  her  to  let  everything  ^o  on  as  before.  I  mean," 
the  governess  said,  coloring  slightly,  "  as  regards  myself 
and  her,  of  course." 

Mr.  Wyndham  took  her  hand  and  looked  down  at  her, 
M-ith  tliat  grave,  sad  smile  still  on  his  face. 

*•  .My  dear  Miss  Henderson,"  he  said,  "—for  by  that 
naaie  I -must  call  you— you  are  the  best  and  noblest 
woman  in  the  world,  and  I  shall  venerate  all  womankind 
henceforth  for  your  sake.    But  we  would  be  as  selfish  u 


468  CROOKED     WATS. 

you  are  noble  did  we  accept  the  sacrifice  you  are  sc  ■wil.- 
inir  to  make.  I  lias'e  come  to  oiier  the  only  atonement  it 
is  in  my  power  to  make  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  her. 
On  the  result  depends  what  her  future  life  shall  be." 

The  governess  understood  him,  and  the  co.or  deepened 
on  her  face. 

"  She  is  in  the  librai'y,"  she  said,  withdrawing  her 
hand  and  moving  away.     "  You  have  my  best  wishes." 

Paul  Wyndham  tapped  at  the  libravy-door,  and  the 
familiar  voice  of  the  woman  he  sought  called  "  Come  in  !'' 
She  was  lying  on  a  lounge,  drawn  up  before  a  glowing 
coal-lire,  listlessly  l,ying  there,  its  ruddy  glow  falling  on 
her  face,  and  showing  how  wan  and  worn  it  was.  At  sight 
of  him,  that  pale  face  turned  even  paler,  and  she  rose  up 
and  looked  at  hiiu,  as  some  poor  criminal  under  trial  for 
her  life  might  look  at  her  judge. 

"  Have  i  frightened  you  V  he  eaid,  noticing  that 
startled  glance.  "  Pray  resume  your  seat.  You  hardly 
look  well  enough  to  stand  up." 

She  sank  back  on  the  lounge,  holding  one  hand  over 
her  throbbing  heart.  "  Paul  Wyndham  stood  leaning 
against  the  marble  mantel,  looking  down  at  the  fire,  and 
thinking  of. that  other  interview  he  had  held  with  this 
woman,  when  he  had  to  tell  her  she  must  be  his  wife. 
How  few  months  had  intervened  since  then,  but  what  a 
lifetime  of  trouble,  and  secrecy,  and  suspicion,  and  guilt 
it  seemed  ;  and  how  she  must  hate  and  despise  Jiim  !  She 
had  told  him  so  once.  How  useless,  then,  it  seemed,  for 
him  to  approach  her  again  I  But,  whetlier  refused  or  not, 
that  way  duty  lay  ;  and  he  had  deserved  the  humiliation. 
She  sat  before  him,  but  not  looking  at  him.  He  could 
not  see  her  face,  for  she  held  up  a  dainty  little  toy  of  a 
hand-screen  between  it  and  the  lireiight;  but  he  could  see 
that  the  hand  which  held  it  shook,  and  that  the  lace  on 
her  breast  liuttercd,  as  if  with  the  beating  of  the  heart 
beneath.     And  seeing  it,  he  took  courage. 

''  I  scarcely  know,"  he  began,  "  how  I  can  say  to  you 
what  1  have  come  here  to-nigiit  to  say.  I  sciircely  know 
how  I  dare  speak  to  you  at  all.  Believe  me,  no  man 
could  be  more  penitent  for  the  wi'ong  I  have  done  you 


CROOKED     1\rAT8.  409 


than  I  am.  If  my  life  could  atone  for  it,  I  would 
give  it,  and  think  the  atonement  cheaply  purchased. 
Bat  my  death  cannot  repair  the  sin  of  the  past.  I 
have  wronged  you — deeply,  cruelly  wronged  you — 
^  and  I  have  only  your  woman's  pity  and  clemency 
to  look  to  now.  I  can  scarcely  hope  any  feeling  can  re- 
main for  me  in  your  lieart  but  one  of  abhorrence,  and 
that  abhorrence  1  have  deserved  ;  but  I  owe  it  to  you  to 
say  what  I  have  come  here  to  utter.  You  know  all  the 
story  of  the  past.  You  heard  it  from  the  lips  that  are 
cold  in  death  now,  and  those  dying  lips  encouraged  me  to 
make  this  poor  reparation.  Harriet,  my  poor,  wron<red 
girl,  if  you  will  take  her  place,  if  you  will  be  to  me  what 
the  world  here  has  for  so  many  months  thought  you— 
what  she  really  was— if  you  will  be  ray  wife,  my  dear 
and  cherished  wife,  I  will  try  what  a  lifetime  of  devotion 
will  do  to  atone  for  the  sorrowful  past.  Perhaps,  my 
poor  dear,  you  will  be  able  to  care  for  me  enough  in  time 
to  forgive  Ine— almost  to  love  me— and  Heaven  knows  I 
will  do  my  best  to  be  all  to  you  a  husband  should  be  to  a 
beloved  wife !"  ,      ,.,  •        1 

He  stopped,  looking  at  her;  but  she  did  not  stn-,  only 
the  hand  holding  the  screen  trembled  violently,  and  the 
fluttering  breast  rose  and  fell  faster  than  ever. 

"  Harriet,"  he  said,  gently,  "  am  I  so  hateful  to  you 
that  you  will  not  even  look  at  me?  Can  you  never  for- 
give "me  for  what  I  have  done?" 

She  dropped  the  screen  and  rose  up,  her  face  all  wet 
with  a  rain  of  happy  tears,  and  held  out  both  hands  to 
him— all  pride  gone  forever  now.  , 

«I  do  not  forgive  you,"  she  said  "I  love  you  and 
love  never  has  anything  to  forgive.  O  Paul,  I  have  loved 
you  ever  since  you  made  me  your  wife  1 

So  Paul  WVndham  found  out  at  last  what  others  had 
known  "so  long,' and  took  his  poor  forlorn  wife  to  «s  anns 
with  a  strange,  remorseful  sort  of  tenderness,  tha,  if  not 
love,  was  neSr  akin  to  it.  So,  while  the  h re  bl^'^'^djo w 
and  cast  weird  shadows  on  the  dusky,  book-lined  walls, 
Sd  the  Number  wind  wailed  without,  these  two,  never 


470  IN    HOPE. 

Vinited  before,  sat  side  by  side,  and  talked  of  a  future  tliat 
was  to  be  theirs,  far  from  Speckport  and  those  who 
had  heard  the  sinful  and  sorrowful  story  of  the  past. 

By  and  by,  a  servant  coming  in  to  replenish  the  fire 
found  them  sittinj^  peacefully  together,  as  he  had  never 
seen  his  master  and  mistress  sit  before,  and  was  sent  to 
find  Miss  Rose  and  bring  her  to  them.  And  I  think  Har- 
riet herself  was  hardly  happier  in  her  new  bliss  than  her 
gentle  stepsister  in  witnessing  it. 

So,  while  Charley  Marsh,  up  in  Yal  Blake's  room, 
that  cold  I^ovember  night,  listened  in  strange  amazement 
to  all  that  had  been  going  on  of  late — to  the  romance- 
like story  in  which  his  unhappy  sister  had  played  so  prom- 
inent a  part — the  two  sat  in  the  luxurious  library  at  Red- 
mon  in  this  new  happiness  that  had  come  to  them  from 
Nathalie  Marsh's  grave ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

IN   HOPE. 

^I^N  the  pale  November  sunlight  of  the  next 
morning,  in  the  plain,  dark  travel ing-can'iage 
from  Redmon,  a  little  party  of  four  persons 
drove  rapidly  along  the  country -roads  to  a 
quiet  little  out-of-the-way  church,  some  fifteen 
miles  out  of  town.  They  were  Mr.  and  Mi's.  Paul  Wynd- 
ham,  Mr.  Blake,  and  Miss  Rose  Henderson ;  and  in  the 
quiet  church  a  quiet  ceremony  was  performed  by  6])3cial 
license,  which  made  Paul  Wyndliam  and  Harriet  Wade 
man  and  wife,  beyond  the  power  of  earthly  tribunals  to 
dispute.  The  clergyman  was  quite  young,  and  the  parties 
were  all  strangers  to  him,  and  he  had  a  priv^ate  opinion  of 
liis  own  tliat  it  was  a  runaway  match.  There  were  no 
witnesses  but  the  two,  and  wlien  it  was  over  tjiey  drove 
back  agaiu  to  Redmon,  and  JIarriet's  heart  was  at  peace  at 


m    HOPE.  47\ 


last.  SliG  had  a  trial  to  undergo  that  day — a  great  humi- 
liation to  endure — but  it  was  a  vohmtary  humiliation;  and 
with  her  husband — liers  now — slie  could  undergo  any- 
thing. The  old,  licrce,  unbending  pride,  too,  that  had 
been  her  sin  and  misfortune  all  her  life,  had  been  chas- 
tened and  subdued,  and  she  owed  to  the  society  she  had 
deceived  the  penance  self-intlictcd. 

Val  Blake  had  all  the  talking  to  himself  on  the  way 
home,  and,  to  do  liim  justice,  there  wasn't  much  silence 
during  the  drive.  He  was  talking  of  Charley  Mai-sh, 
who  had  come  home  a  far  iiner  fellow  than  he  had  gone 
away,  a  brave  and  good  and  rich  man. 

The}''  were  all  to  meet  that  evening  at  a  quiet  dinner- 
party at  Rednion — a  farewell  dinner  party,  it  was  under- 
stood, given  by  Mr.  and  Mi-s.  Wyndham,  before  their  de- 
parture from  Sjieckport  to  parts  unknown.  The  invited 
guests  were  Mrs.  Alarsh  and  her  son,  Dr.  Leach,  Mr. 
"Blake,  and  Miss  Blair,  Father  Lennard  (the  old  priest), 
and  Mr.  Darcy  (the  lawyer).  A  very  select  few,  indeed, 
and  all  but  Mr.  Darcy  acquainted  with  the  story  of  the 
woman  who  had  died  at  liosebush  Cottage,  and  the  other 
story  of  the  true  and  false  heiress.  He,  too,  was  to  be 
enlightened  this  evening,  and  Harriet  Wyndham  was  pul)- 
licly  to  renounce  and  hand  over  to  her  half-sister,  Wimii- 
fred  Hose  Henderson,  the  fortune  to  which  she  never  had 
possessed  a  claim.  That  was  her  Inuniliation ;  but  with 
her  lim;band  by  her  side,  she  was  great  enough  for  that  or 
anything  else. 

So  the  wedding-day  passed  very  quietly  at  Kedmon, 
and  in  the  pale  early  twilight  the  guests  began  to  arnvo. 
Among  the  first  to  arrive  was  Mre.  Marsh  and  her  son  ; 
the  next  to  appear  was  Val,  with  Laui-a  tucked  under  his 
arm ;  and  Laura,  with  a  little  feminine  scream  of  delight, 
dropped  into  Mrs.  Wyndhanrs  arms,  and  rained  upon  that 
lady  a  shower  of  gushing  tears.  rS 

"  (Jill  what  an  a"-e  it  is  since  I  have  seen  my  darling 
Oily  before!"  Miss Tilair cried,  " and  1  have  been  fairlj^ 
dvins;  for  this  hour  to  arrive." 

Mro.  Paul  Wyndham  kissed  the  rosy  rapturous  face, 


473  IN   HOPE. 

vnih.  that  subdued  and  chastened  tenderness  tliat  had  come 
to  her  through  much  sorrow ;  and  her  dark  eyes  tilled 
with  tearSj  as  she  thought,  perhaps,  loving  little  Laura 
miglit  leave  liedmon  that  night  with  all  this  pretty  girl- 
ish Jove  gone,  and  nothing  but  contempt  in  its  place. 

Half  an  hour  after,  all  the  guests  had  arrived,  and 
were  seated  around  the  dinner  table ;  but  the  party  was 
not  a  very  gay  one,  somehow.  The  knowledge  of  what 
had  passed  was  in  every  mind  ;  but  Mr.  Darcy  was  yet  in 
ignorance,  and  he  set  the  dullness  down  to  the  recent 
death  of  Mr.  Wyndham's  mother.  Once,  too,  there  was  a 
little  awkwardness — Wyndham,  speaking  to  Miss  Rose,  liad 
addressed  her  as  Miss  Henderson,  and  Mr.  Darcy  stared. 

"  Henderson  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  are  talking  to  Miss 
Kose,  Wyndham !  Are  you  thinking  of  your  courting 
days  and  Miss  Ohve  Henderson?" 

JBnt  Mrs.  Wyndham  and  her  half-sister  colored,  and 
everybody  looked  suddenly  down  at  their  plates.  Mr. 
Darcy  stared  the  more ;  but  Paul  Wyndham,  looking 
very  gi'ave,  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Miss  Kose  is  Miss  Kose  Henderson !  Eat  your 
dinner,  Mr.  Darcy ;  we  will  tell  you  all  about  it  after." 

So,  when  all  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  Val 
Blake  told  Mr.  Darcy  how  he  had  been  outwitted  by  a 
girl.  IMot  that  Mr.  Blake  put  it  in  any  such  barbarous 
way,  but  glossed  over  ugly  facts  with  a  politeness  that 
was  quite  unusual  in  straightforward  Val.  But  Mrs.  Paul 
Wyndham  herself  rose  up,  very  white,  with  lips  that 
trembled,  and  was  brave  enough  and  strong  enough  to 
openly  confess  her  sin  and  her  sister's  goodness.  She 
looked  up,  with  pitiful  supplication,  in  the  face  of  her 
husband,  as  she  finished,  with  the  imploring  appeal  of  a 
little  child  for  j^ardon;  and  he  put  his  protecting  arm 
around  her,  and  smiled  tenderly  down  in  the  mournful 
black  eyes,  once  so  defiantly  bright  to  him.  Mr.  Darcy's 
amazement  was  beyond  everything. 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  was  his  cry,  "  and  little  Miss  Kose 
is  Miss  Henderson,  after  all,  and  the  heiress  of  Kedmon." 

Miss  Hendei-son,  on  whom  all  eyes  were  admiiinglj 


IN    HOPE.  473 

bent,  was  paiufnllj  confused,  and  shrank  so  palpably,  that 
the  old  lawyer  spared  her,  and  no  one  was  sacrileicioua 
enough  to  tell  the  little  heroine  what  thej  thought  oi  her 
noble  conduct.  And  when  Mrs.  Marsh  burst  unexpected- 
ly out  in  a  glowing  eulogj  on  all  her  goodness,  not  only  to 
herself  and  Nathalie,  but  to  all  who  were  poor  and  friend- 
less in  the  town,  tbe  little  heiress  broke  down  and  cried. 
So  no  more  was  said  in  her  hearing,  and  the  gentlemen 
gathered  together,  and  talked  the  matter  over  apart  from 
the  ladies,  and  settled  how  the  news  was  to  be  taken  to 
Speckport. 

It  was  late  Avhen  the  party  broke  up,  and  good-night 
and  good-bye  was  said  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  AVjndham,  who 
were  to  leave  to-morrow  at  eight.  Val  and  Laura 
promised  to  be  at  the  boat  to  see  them  off ;  and  they  were 
down  true  to  their  word,  before  the  lledmon  carriage  ar- 
rived. Charley  was  there,  too,  and  so  was  Cherrie,  in 
crape  to  the  eyes,  looking  very  pretty  in  her  widow's 
weeds,  and  all  in  a  flutter  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Charley  ' 
again.  Uut  this  bearded  and  mustached  and  grave-look- 
ing young  man  was  not  the  hot-headed,  thoughtless 
Charley  her  pretty  face  had  nearly  ruined  for  life ;  and 
as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  with  a  grave,  almost  sad 
smile,  Cherrie  suddenly  recollected  all  tue  evil  she  had 
caused  him,  and  had  the  grace  to  burst  into  tears,  much  to 
the  horror  of  Mr.  Blake,  who  had  a  true  masculine  dread 
of  scenes. 

"  Don't  cry,  Cherrie,"  Chai'ley  said,  "it's  all  over  now, 
and  it  has  done  me  good." 

If  any  lingering  hope  remained  that  the  old  time  might 
be  renewed,  that  question  and  the  smile  that  accompanied 
it  banished  it  forever  from  poor  Cherrie's  foolish  heart  and 
her  punishment  that  moment  wjis  bitterer  than  all  that 
had  gone  before. 

Miss  Henderson  was  in  the  carriage  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
"Wyndham,  and  went  on  board  with  them,  as  did  the  rest 
of  their  friends,  and  lingered  imtil  the  last  bell  rang. 
Then,  as  Mi-s.  Wyndham  threw  back  her  vail  for  a  |)art- 
iiig  kiss,  they  all  saw  that  her  eyes  were  swollen  with  cry- 


474  IN   HOPE. 

ing.  Paul  Wyndliam  held  both  the  little  hands  of  th« 
heiress  in  his  own,  and  looked  down  in  the  gentle  face 
with  tender  reverence. 

"  Good-bye,  little  sister,"  he  said  ;  "  good-bje,  and 
God  bless  joii !" 

The  others  were  crowding  around,  and  hastj  farewells 
were  spoken  ;  and  then  the  steamer  was  moving  away 
from  the  wharf,  and  Charley  led  Miss  Henderson,  who 
was  crying  behind  her  vail,  ashore  ;  and  they  stood  on  the 
wharf  to  watch  the  steamer  out  of  sight.  They  saw  Paul 
Wyudham  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  waving  a  last  fare- 
well from  the  deck  ;  and  then  the  steamer  w^as  down  the 
bay,  and  all  the  j^eople  on  the  wharf  were  going  home, 
Oiiarley  Marsh  assisted  Miss  Henderson  into  her  carriage, 
and  she  was  diiven  away  to  her  new  home. 

Speckport  knew  everything — the  murder  was  out,  and 
Speckport,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  was  agape  at  the 
news.  There  was  one  thing  about  the  affair  they  couli 
not  understand,  and  that  was,  how  the  rightful  heiress, 
knowing  herself  to  ba  so,  and  perfectly  able  to  prove  it, 
could  wear  out  her  life  as  a  pitiful  governess,  and  leave  a 
princely  fortune  in  the  hands  of  a  usurping  stepsister. 
tSpeckport  could  not  understand  this — never  could  under- 
srand  it,  and  set  her  down  as  an  insipid  httle  nonentity, 
with  no  vcill  of  her  own,  and  easily  twisted  aiound  the 
linger  of  that  bold,  bad,  ambitious  woman,  Mrs.  Paul 
Wyudham.  Speckport  did  not^iparc  its  late  enchantress, 
and  for  all  their  contempt  of  that  ''  insipid  thing  "  the 
present  heiress,  were  very  well  satisfied  to  be  noticed  by 
her  iu  public,  and  only  too  happy  to  call  at  Redmou. 
It  was  in  her  favor,  they  said,  that  she  put  on  no  airs  in 
consequence  of  her  sudden  rise  in  the  world,  but  was  as 
gentle,  and  humble,  and  patient,  and  sweet,  as  heiress  of 
lleJmou  as  she  had  been  when  Mrs.  Wheatly's  governess. 
A  few  there  were  who  undei-stood  and  appreciated  her; 
and  when  old  Father  Lennard  laid  his  hand  on  her  droop- 
ing head  and  fervently  exclaimed,  "  God  bless  you,  my 
child  !"  her  eyes  filled,  and  she  felt  more  than  repaid  for 
any  BacriUce  she  had  ever  made.     Speckport  said — but 


IN   ROPE.  4„ 

Speckport  was  ahyays  -iven  to  say  a  good  deal  more  tlian 
Its  pi-ajcrs— b])eckpo;T  said  Mr.  Charles  Mai-sli  appre- 
ciated her,  too,  and  that  the  estate  of  Redinon  would 
even  ually  go,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Leroy's  unjust  will,  to  the 
Mai^h  family.  ^  But  it  was  only  gossip,  this,  and  nobody 
know  foi-  certain,  and  Mrs.  Marsh  and  Miss  Rose  Ilendei-- 
60U  had  always  been  the  best  of  friends. 

_  And  just  about  this  time,  too,  Speekjiort  found  some- 
t  ung  elso  1o  talk  about— no  less  u  matter,  indeed,  than 
the  inarnage  of  Valentine  Blake,  Esq.,  to  Mis,s  Lawra 
Amelia  Blair.  Such  a  snapper  of  a  day  as  the  weddincr. 
day  was— cold  enough  to  freeze  the  leg  off  an  iron  po?. 
but  for  all  that,  the  big  catlicdral  was  half  tilled  with 
curious  Speckportonians,  straining  tlieir  necks  to  see  the 
bride  and  bridegroom,  and  their  aiders  and  abettors.  Mr. 
Blake  stood  it  like  a  man,  and  looked  almost  good-lookiu» 
in  his  neatly-fitting  wedding  suit  ;  and  Charley  MarsS 
by  his  side  looked  like  a  young  prince—handsomer  than 
any  prince  that  ever  wore  a  crown,  poor  Cherrie  thought, 
as  she  made  eyes  at  him  from  her  pew. 

There  was  a  wedding-breakfast  to  be  eaten  at  Mr. 
Blair's,  and  a  very  jolly  breakfast  it  was.  And  then  Mrs. 
V.  Blake  exchanged  her  bridal-gear  for  a  traveling-dress, 
and  was  handed  into  the  carriage  that  was  to  convey  iier 
to  the  railway  station,  by  her  husband ;  and  tiie  brido- 
niaids  ware  kissed  all  round  by  the  bride,  and  good-bye 
was  said,  and  the  hap2)y  pair  were  fairly  started  on  their 
bridal  tour. 

It  took  Speckport  a  week  to  fairly  digest  this  matter, 
and  by  the  end  of  that  time  it  got  another  delectable  mor- 
sel of  gossip  ti>  swallow.  Charley  Marsh  was  going  away. 
He  was  a  rich  man,  now ;  but  for  all  that  lie  w;is  gOiiig 
to  be  a  doctor,  and  was  off  to  New  York  right  away,  to 
finish  his  medical  studies  and  get  his  diploma. 

It  Wcis  a  miserably  wet  and  windy  day,  that  which 
preceded  the  young  man's  departure.  A  depressing  day, 
that  lowered  the  spirits  of  the  most  sanguine,  and  made 
them  feel  life  was  a  cheat,  and  not  what  it  is  cracked  up 
to  be,  and  wonder  how  they  could  ever  laugh  and  enjoy 


476  rS    HOPE. 

themselves  at  all.  A  dreary  day  to  say  good-bye;  but 
riliarley,  buttoned  up  in  his  overcoat,  and  making  sunsliine 
witli  his  bright  blue  eyes  and  pleasant  smile,  went  through 
"with  it  bravely,  and  had  bidden  his  dear  five  himdred 
adieu  in  the  couree  of  two  brisk  hours.  There  was  only 
one  friend  remaining  to  whom  he  had  yet  to  say  "  that 
dear  old  Avord  good-bye ;"  and  in  the  rainy  twih'ght  he 
drove  up  the  loTig  avenue  of  Redmon,  black  and  ghastly 
now,  and  was  admitted  by  Mrs.  Hill  hei*self. 

"  Oil,  Mr.  Charley,  is  it  you  i"  the  good  woman  said. 
"  You're  going  away,  they  tell  me.  Dear  me,  we'll  miss 
you  so  mucli !"' 

"  Tliat's  right,  Mrs.  Hill !  I  like  my  friends  to  miss 
me ;  but  I  don't  mean  to  stay  away  forever.  Is  Miss  Hen- 
dei'son  at  home  V 

"  She  is  in  the  library.     "Walk  right  in  !" 

Charley  was  quite  at  home«in  Kedmon  Yilla.  The 
library  door  stood  ajar.  Some  one  was  playing,  and  he 
entered  unheard.  I'he  rain  lashed  and  blustered  at  the 
windows:  and  the  wail  of  the  wind,  and  sea,  and  woods 
made  a  dull,  roaring  sound  of  dreariness  without ;  but  a 
coal-tire  glowed  red  and  cheery  in  the  steel  grate ;  and 
curtained,  and  close,  and  warm,  the  library  was  a  very  cozj' 
place  that  bad  January  day.  The  twilight  shadows 
lurked  in  the  cornei-s ;  but,  despite  their  deepening  gloom, 
the  visitor  saw  a  little,  slender,  girlish  shape  sitting  before 
a  small  cottage-piano  and  softly  touching  the  keys.  Old, 
sad  memories  seemed  to  be  at  v/ork  in  her  heart ;  for  the 
chords  she  struck  were  mournful,  and  she  broke  softly 
into  singing  at  last — a  song  as  sad  as  a  f  uneral-hynm : 

•'  Rain  !  rain  !  rain  I 

On  the  cold  autumnal  niglit  I 
Like  tears  we  weep  o'er  tlie  banished  hope 
"  Tliat  fled  with  the  summer  light. 

"  O  rain  1  rain  !  rain  ! 

You  mourn  for  the  flowers  dead  ; 
But  hearts  there  are,  in  their  hopeless  woe, 
That  not  even  tears  may  shed  I 


/iV    HOPE.  477 

**  O  rain  !  rain  I  rain  ! 

You  fall  on  the  nevv'-mnde  grave 
Where  the  loved  one  sleeps  that  our  bitter  prayew 
Were  powerless  to  save  I 

"  O  fall  !  fall  I  fall  ! 

Thou  dreary  and  cheerless  rain  ! 
But  the  voice  that  sang  with  your  summer-chime 
Will  never  be  heard  again  I" 

The  song  died  away  like  a  sigh  ;  and  she  arose  from  th« 
instrument,  looking  like  a  little,  pale  spint  of  the  twi- 
light, in  her  flowing  white  cashmere  dress.  The  red 
firelight,  flickering  uncertainly,  fell  on  a  young  man's 
figure  loaning  against  the  mantel,  and  the  girl  recoiled 
with  a  faint  cry.     Charley  started  up. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Henderson— Winnie  "  (they 
had  all  grown  to  call  her  Winnie  of  late)."  "  I  am  afraid 
I  have  startled  you  ;  but  you  were  singing  when  I  came 
in,  and  the  song  was  too  sweet  to  be  broken.  1  am  rather 
late,  but  I  wanted  to  say  good-bye  hero  last," 

"  Then  you  really  go  to-morrow  ?"  she  said,  not  look- 
ing at  him.     "  How  much  your  mother  will  miss  you !" 

*'  Yes,  poor  mother  !  but,"  smiling  slightly,  "  I  shall 
send  her  a  box. full  of  all  the  new  novels  when  I  get  to 
New  York,  and  that  will  console  her.  I  wish  somebody 
else  would  miss  me,  Winnie." 

Is  a  woman  ever  taken  by  surprise,  I  wonder,  in  these 
cases  ?  Does  she  not  akvays  know  beforehand  when  that 
all-important  revelation  is  made  that  it  is  coming,  particu- 
larly if  she  loves  the  narrator  ?  I  am  pretty  sure  of  it, 
though  she  may  feign  surprise  ever  so  well.  She  can  tell 
the  instant  he  crosses  the  threshold  what  he  has  come  to 
say.  So  Winnifred  Kose  Henderson  knew  what  Ciiarles 
Marsh  had  come  to  tell  her  from  the  moment  she  looked 
at  him ;  and  sitting  down  on  a  low  chair  before  the  glow- 
ing lire,  she  listened  for  a  second  time  in  her  life  to  the 
old,  old  story.  What  a  gulf  lay  between  that  time  and 
this — a  girl  then,  a  woman  now  I  And  how  different  the 
two  men  who  had  told  it  I 


473  /iV    nOPE. 

Worthy  Mn;.  Hill,  trotting  np-stairs  and  down-stairs, 
seeing  to  fires  and  bed-rooms,  and  everything  proper  to  bo 
seen  to  hy  a  good  housekeeper,  suddenly  remembered  tho 
lire  in  the  library  must  he  getting  low,  and  that  it  would 
be  jnst  lil^e  the  young  people  saying  good-bye  to  one 
niiotlier  to  forget  all  about  it,  rapped  to  the- door  somo 
]\Ai  an  hour  after.  "  Come  in !"  the  sweet  voice  of  Miss 
llcndci'son  said,  and  Mrs.  Hill  went  in  and  found  the 
young  lady  and  Mr.  Marsh  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  sofa, 
and  both  wearing  such  radiant  faces,  that  the  dear  old 
lady  saw  at  once  tlirougli  her  spectacles  how  matters 
stood,  and  kissed  Miss  Henderson  on  the  spot,  and  shook 
hands  mth  Mister  Charley,  and  wished  him  joy  with  all 
her  honest  heart.  So  the  momentous  question  had  been 
asked  and  answered,  and  on  Miss  Hendei-son's  linger  glit- 
tered an  engagement-ring,  and  Charley  Mai-sh,  in  tlie 
bleak  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  left  Speckport  once 

7Uore,  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  universe. 

it  *  *  *  *  * 

Tho  story  is  told,  the  play  played  out,  the  actors  off 
the  stage,  and  high  time  for  the  curfciin  to  fall.  But  the 
nidience  are  dissatislicd  yet,  and  have  some  questions  to 
ask.  "  How  did  Val  Blake  and  Laura  get  on,  and  !Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wyndham  ?  What  became  of  Ciicrrie  and 
Catty  Clowrie?  and  have  Charley  and  Miss  Henderson 
got  married  yet?  and  who  was  at  the  wedding?  and  who 
were  tliC  brideraaids?  and  what  did  the  bride  wear?" 
Well,  let  me  see.  I'll  answer  as  they  come.  It  is  six 
months  after,  red-hot  July — not  a  sign  of  fog  in  Speck- 
port,  picnics  and  jollifications  every  day,  and  the  blessed 
little  city  (it  is  a  city,  though  I  have  stigmatized  it  as  a 
to\vn)  out  in  its  gala-dress.  Do  you  see  that  handsome 
house  in  Golden  Rovv*  ?  There  is  a  shining  door-plate  on 
the  front  door,  and  you  can  read  the  name—"  Y.  Blake.'* 
Yes,  tliat  is  Mr.  Blake's  house,  and  inside  it  is  sumptuous 
to  behold  ;  for  the  "Spouter"  increases  its  circulation  every 
day,  and  Mr.  13.  keeps  his  carriage  and  pair  now,  and  is  a 
rising  man — I  mean  out  of  doore.  In  his  own  single 
nook,  I    regret  to  say,  lie  is  hen-pecked — ^unmercifully 


JN    HOPE.  473 


hcn-pee]cccL  The  gray  mare  is  the  Letier  horpo ;  and  Mr. 
Blake  submits  to  petticoat-govemmeiit  with  that  subh'me 
good-nature  your  big  man  always  manifests,  and  knocks 
meekly  nnder  at  the  first  flahh  of  MLiti-ess  Laura's  bright 
eye — not  that  that  lady  is  any  less  fond  of  Mr.  Val  than 
of  yore.  Oh,  no  !  She  thinks  there  is.  nobody  like  hinoi 
in  tliis  little  planet  of  oni-s;  only  she  believes  in  ImsbandB 
kee])ing  their  proper  place,  and  acts  up  to  this  belief. 
She  is  becoming  more  and  more  literary  ever}''  day — fear- 
fnlly  literary,  I  may  say  ;  and  the  first  two  fingers  of  the 
right  hand  are  daily  steeped  to  the  bone  in  ink. 

Air.  and  Mrs.  "Wyndham  are  ui  New  York,  and  are 
very  bus}-.  Charley  Mai-sh  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  their 
house  last  winter,  and  says  he  never  saw  a  happier  and 
more  loving  Inisband  and  wife.  Mr.  Wyndham  is  high 
in  the  literary  world  ;  and  Mrs.  Wyndham  i«  very  muoii 
admired  in  society,  as  much,  perhaj)s,  for  her  gentleness 
and  goodness  as  for  her  beauty.  They  are  happy  an<l  at 
peace ;  and  so  v.'e  leave  them. 

Cherrie  Keitleijy  (nobody  thinks  of  calling  her  Mrs. 
Cavendish)  is  going  to  be  married  next  week.  The  happy 
man  is  S(;rgeant  O'Shanghnessy,  a  bi^  Irishman,  six  ieet 
four  in  his  stockings,  v.'ith  a  laugh  hke  distant  timnder, 
rosy  cheeks,  and  curly  hair.  A 'fine-looking  fellow.  Ser- 
geant O'Shaughnessy,  with  a  heart  as  big  as  his  body,  who 
adores  the  ground  Cherrie  walks  on. 

And  Cliarley  is  married,  and  happier  than  I  can  ever 
tell.  He  is  rich  and  honored,  and  does  a  great  dcil  of 
good,  and  is  a  great  man  in  Spcckportr— a  grcat  nnd  good 
man.  And  his  wife— but  yon  know  jier— and  she  is  the 
Kame  to-day,  and  vrill  Ik?  ih'e  same  unto  death,  as  you  have 
known  her.  Mrs.  Marsh,  Senior,  lives  with  them,  and 
reads  as  much  as  ever ;  and  is  waited  on  by  Alielge,  who 
lives  a  life  of  luxurious  leisure  in  liedmon  kitchen,  and 
queens  it  over  the  household  generally.  _ 

There  is  a  quiet  little  grave  out  in  the  country  which 
Charles  IRIai-sh  and  his  wife  visit  very  often,  and  whicli 
they  never  leave  without  loving  each  other  ])etter,  and 
feeling  more  resolute,  with  God's  help,  tc  walk  down  to 


480  ly    HOPE. 


the  grave  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path  that  leads  to 
salvation.  They  are  only  human.  They  have  all  erred, 
and  sinned,  and  repented ;  and  in  that  saving  repentance 
they  have  found  the  truth  of  the  holy  promise :  "  There 
shall  be  light  at  the  eventide." 


THB  EZnX 


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